


50 Prompts, 50(ish) Fics

by Kicker



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Comedy, Fluff, Friendship, Multi, One Shot Collection, Smoking, Smut, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-12-22 21:55:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 55
Words: 34,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11975820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kicker/pseuds/Kicker
Summary: Series of minifics and oneshots from a prompt list I posted last year.Wide variety of characters and themes involved so check chapter titles and summaries to find what you're looking for.





	1. "No one needs to know" - Cait, Paladin Danse

**Author's Note:**

> In the middle of last year I posted [a prompt list ](http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/145401644005/send-me-a-pairing-and-a-number-and-ill-write-you), not really thinking anything would come of it. Over the course of three months I got more than 50 requests (!). It was a m a z i n g. 
> 
> Just popping them up here now for archive-y reasons. All of these were originally posted on my tumblr - the masterpost is here: [50 prompts, 50(ish) fics](http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/150839795545/50-prompts-50ish-fics). A couple of them have since been extended/incorporated into longer works - I'll link that work as applicable.
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoy - if you like any of the characters/combos please do let me know. :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: 47. "No one needs to know"  
> Characters/Relationship: Cait, Paladin Danse  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/145452938460/prompt-47-for-whatever-pairing-you-like-please  
> Content advice: n/a

“No one needs to know,” says Cait.  
    
“What do you mean, no one needs to know? Know what?” says Danse.

“That I beat ya,” says Cait.

“I find that a somewhat unlikely outcome,” says Danse. He picks up his beer, but it’s empty. Just as it was the last three times he checked.

Cait grins. “So you’re refusin’ for why exactly?”

“Because,” says Danse. “I wouldn’t want to hurt you.”

Cait snorts, and cracks her knuckles. “I’d like to see you try.”

“You won’t,” says Danse, taking a steadying breath, “because I refuse.”

Cait smiles. It’s a suspiciously sweet smile. “Well,” she says. “Rules say I win by default.”

“The rules?” says Danse. “Which rules?”

“The rules,” she says. “Commonwealth rules. I wouldn’t expect ya to know, bein’ new round here an’ all. But we take ‘em very serious.”

He casts a glance over her. She’s solid, certainly, with some well-defined muscle in her arms. But she can’t possibly be a match for him. 

She rests her chin on her palm. “Rules also say I do get to tell everyone,” she says. “Maybe I’ll go to your big balloon, tell what’s-‘is-name. Maxie.”

He sighs. As if she’d be allowed on the Prydwen in the first place. But it doesn’t seem like she’s going to give up. She has proven herself to be somewhat… tenacious. Every time she’s challenged him before, the Knight has been around to distract her.

The Knight, who disappeared off to the bar at least fifteen minutes before.

“Fine,” he says. There’s no need to endanger her, after all, he can simply moderate his strength and wait for her to tire.

She sets her elbow on the table. “Bring it on,” she says.

After thirty seconds or so, she reaches out her other hand and feels his upper arm. “Well, will you look at that,” she says. “Very nice.”

He frowns. “Commonwealth rules permit cheap distractions?” he says.

“Only reason I’m lettin’ you play in that shirt,” says Cait, with a sniff. She concentrates again.  A few more moments pass, with no sign of her tiring.

“Good arm, though,” she says, conversationally. “Wouldn’t mind havin’ it wrapped around me waist in a back alley.”

His grip falters. She takes advantage of this moment of weakness, suddenly increasing her strength and slamming his hand to the table, wrenching his arm half out of its socket.

Worse, he has a horrible feeling that she was humoring him all along.

She pats him on the shoulder. “Like I said,” she says with a grin. “Nobody needs to know.”


	2. "Have you lost your damn mind?" - Paladin Danse, Female Sole Survivor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: 2. "Have you lost your damn mind?"  
> Characters/Relationship: Paladin Danse, Female Sole Survivor  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/145460705565/lol2-danse-and-sole-it-was-hard-to  
> Content advice: n/a

“Have you lost your damn mind?” says Danse.

Her head snaps around, and for a brief moment he’s sure there’s a hint of guilt on her face. A widening of the eyes, a flush in her cheeks. Then, as it so often does, the expression dissolves into a smile.

“What?” she asks, innocently.

She’s standing on the shore, her jeans rolled up to her knees, her feet in the water. The water being the sea. The sea that’s full of rads and the blood that’s oozing out of the two mirelurk hunters that they’ve just killed, and he’s just finished butchering. Little sense letting good meat go to waste.

Well. Meat, anyway.

“You know what,” he says.

She looks down at her feet, wriggling her toes. A wave washes over them, burying them in wet sand. “Nope,” she says. “No idea.”

“Come on,” he says. “Come out of there.”

“It’s fine,” she says. “It’s nice, actually.”

“Whether it’s nice or not is irrelevant,” he says. “Think of the pollutants.“ 

“We’ve taken… precautions,” she says, with a raise of her eyebrow.

“What?!”

She points at the mirelurks. “The Rad-X,” she says. “We should be good for a quarter hour or so. C'mon.”

“I’m not getting in,” he says.

“I’m not saying you should dive face-first,” she says. “Just dip your toes in.”

“It’s not safe,” he says. “What if we’re taken by surprise? How far will you get without your boots?”

She puts one hand on her hip, shades her eyes with the other, and pretends to scan the horizon. “Looks pretty clear to me. And look,” she says, pointing at her feet. “Still there. Still the same color as always. No extra toes. None missing, either.”

She takes a few steps up the beach, losing her balance when crossing into dry sand and grabbing his arm. “And you know what?”

“What?” he says, steadying her, not really wanting to know the answer.

“My feet feel so cool and fresh right now. Do you have any idea how that feels after a long, hot day in boots?” She lifts herself onto the tips of her toes and whispers into his ear. “It feels incredible.”

That’s when he knows he’s lost the argument.

She does too. She grins. “Unless you want to pop another Rad-X, we’ve got ten minutes,” she says. “So come on, get your boots off.”

He sits down on the sand, and begins to unlace his boots. 

“I must have lost my damn mind,” he says.


	3. “Have I entered an alternate universe or did you really just crack a smile for me?” - Paladin Danse, Deacon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Have I entered an alternate universe or did you really just crack a smile for me?”  
> Characters/Relationship: Paladin Danse, Deacon  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/145470093285/40-for-paladin-danse-and-deacon  
> Content advice: n/a

**“Have I entered an alternate universe or did you really just crack a smile for me?”**

The corners of the big guy’s mouth snap down about as fast as his frown normally does. Not that promising a start to a conversation, true, but hang in there. Make like Deacon, in fact, leaning back against that shack. Cool as a tato, he is, which is about the closest approximation to a cucumber as you’re going to get in this day and age.

Danse returns to his task, hammering out the dents in a chunk of something that probably belongs on a set of power armor. Muscles rippling, sweat dripping… 

Just think about that scene for a moment longer…

Wait for it…

There.

The corner of Danse’s mouth ticks back up. And you know what that means. That means he’s thinking.

Deacon extends a finger toward Danse’s face. "There it is again,“ he says. “You see, I have been transported. I wonder what did it. I bet it was aliens.”

“Deacon,” says Danse, “I’m trying to concentrate. What did you want to tell me?”

“I did feel a little odd after lunch,” continues Deacon, looking around the courtyard. “I just thought it was the mirelurk stew, not, you know, inter-dimensional travel. But this is cool, I can go with it.”

Danse wipes his hands on a cloth, and tries to return to the original subject. “So,” he says. “You said you’d seen the General.”

“I wonder what else is different here,” says Deacon. “Ooh, is the General a woman? I wonder if she’s hot.”

Now the other corner of Danse’s mouth turns up, just for a moment, before he wrestles it into submission.

Transparent as always.

“Well,” says Deacon, “back in my reality the old man wanted a word with you, and he looked pretty pissed. So you better trot up into the tower and talk to him. Her. Him. I don’t know, I’m confusing myself already.”

“Which tower?” asks Danse.

“The big one,” says Deacon, gesticulating.  "You know, the one with all the spikes on it.“ 

Danse shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I don’t know.”

Deacon gasps. “You mean that hasn’t been built? What have you guys even been doing in this timeline, a Castle without a tower? Next you’ll be telling me you don’t even have a prison.”

“No,” says Danse. “We don’t.”

“Come to think of it,” says Deacon, “does seem awful quiet without all the screaming and wailing. I really should have caught on earlier.”

“Stop it,” says Danse. “Where is she?”

Deacon shakes his head. “Man,” he says. “I hope your Deacon’s as resilient as I am or he’ll never make it through the daily floggings.”

Danse rubs his forehead with a slightly greasy hand.

“Builds character,” says Deacon. “That’s what the old man says, anyway. Oh. Oh! Do you have to call her ‘Your Majesty’ or is it just ‘Ma'am’?

“Neither,” says Danse, dropping the cloth on the workbench, squinting as he turns into the sun. 

“Milady?” asks Deacon.

“No,” says Danse, heading in the direction of the armory.

“Mistress?” asks Deacon.

Danse stops just for a second and looks over his shoulder, his voice low enough for only Deacon to hear.

“Only in private,” he says.

“Yeah,” says Deacon, after a few moments, watching his retreating back. “Jokes too? Definitely an alternate universe. I’m never eating mirelurk again.”


	4. “If you die, I’m gonna kill you” - X6-88, Female Sole Survivor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “If you die, I’m gonna kill you.”  
> Characters/Relationship: X6-88, Female Sole Survivor  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/145515331980/no-44-whoever-you-like  
> Content advice: n/a

X6-88 sat up, wincing at the brightness of the sky. His head was spinning, his eyes rattling in their sockets, and the right side of his face hurt like hell. He checked his jaw; it still moved easily enough, but it ached, right to the roots of his teeth. Not broken, though. He raised his hand to his cheek; even a gentle touch stung like acid spit, and his fingertips came away covered in blood.

“Ma'am,” he said, trying to remember what had happened, “I assume you’re aware of the contradiction inherent in that statement.”

“I’m not joking,” she said. “What the hell were you thinking?”

He considered the question. The whole morning was a blank. Perhaps longer. “I have no recollection,” he said. “What happened?”

There were two women in front of him, one of them holding up something that appeared to be a stimpak, the other more indistinct, and alarmingly, floating in the air beside the first one. Another stinging touch, this one to his upper arm, and the two images began to resolve into one very angry-looking Director.

“Well,” she said, “first you shouted ‘hold position’, then you ran face-first into a crowd of mutants. I only just took out the suicider in time, and I couldn’t stop the one that smacked you around the head with a chunk of car.”

That was it. A memory flashed back for him. They’d rounded a corner and found a group of mutants squabbling among themselves. All of them had turned around at the same time.

That’s when the beeping had started.

“Oh,” he said, looking around for the device. 

“I’ve got the nuke,” she said. “Don’t worry. Safely defused and in my pack. X6, really. Stop it. You’re no good to me dead.” She reached toward his cheek, pulling back her hand before she touched it. “You’re no good to me horribly wounded, either.”

“It is merely a surface wound,” he said.

The Director swam in and out of focus, mumbling indistinctly.

“And perhaps a mild concussion,” he added. “But I am able to continue.”

“Get up then,” she replied, standing up. After a moment she held out her hand. “Come on.”

He took it, and hauled himself up. Or at least he thought he had. Now not only was he still solidly on the ground, but she was on her knees beside him, brushing dirt off her hands.

“Ow,” she said. “If you carry on like this I might not wait until you’re dead to kill you.”

“Is that a threat?” asked X6-88. “I am obligated to report such statements to my superiors.”

“Well, go ahead,” she said. “We’ll see how they feel about you running off and leaving me exposed like that.”

X6-88 waited.

She sat back on her haunches, and narrowed her eyes. “Wait a minute,” she said. “I  _am_  your superior.”

The smile hurt his face, but he was unable to stop it from spreading.

“Are you laughing at me, X6?” she asked.

“No, ma'am,” he said. “It must be the concussion.”


	5. “I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice” - Arthur Maxson/Female Sole Survivor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice.”  
> Characters/Relationship: Arthur Maxson/Female Sole Survivor  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/145564796105/if-youre-still-doing-the-prompt-thing-and-if-you  
> Content advice: n/a

**“I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice.”**

Her cheeks feel hot. But she’s not a blusher, never has been, so there’ll be no sign of it on her face. She’s always been grateful for that. Embarrassment normally causes the color to rush  _away_  from her cheeks, which means that in the right circumstances, she can fake illness and make a quick getaway from an awkward situation.

That might be about to come in handy

“I… I’m not sure what you mean, Elder,” she says.

He keeps her pinned with those eyes of his. “I think you do,” he says.

It was true that she did look at him quite often. Whenever she was in a briefing session, with his back turned to her, staring out over the sea. Passing his doorway and seeing him bent over his terminal, tapping on the keyboard. That one time she walked into engineering and found him deep in conversation with Paladin Danse, leaning over to look at something on a workbench. She tries not to stare, she tries very hard, but she’s not always that successful.

And it’s just a  _coat_ , for God’s sake.

“I don’t know what to say,” she says, hesitantly.

Even now, her desire to touch it is overwhelming. She can’t stop thinking about the cool leather under her fingertips, the warm sheepskin hugging around her shoulders. The Prydwen is cold at the best of times, so now, in the middle of December, it’s almost unbearable. Even wearing all the scarves and undershirts and thermal underwear she owns, she still finds the cold seeping into her bones.

“On the one hand,” he says, “given our respective ranks, such a liaison is highly inappropriate.”

“Oh,” she says, confused.

“On the other,” he says. “I don’t really care.”

“Oh,” she repeats, blinking. What on earth is he on about?

He breaks eye contact, looking down at his hands. “I find you fascinating,” he says. “I’d like… I’d like to get to know you better.”

Realization dawns, and sends an extra flush of heat into her cheeks. All those times she’d turned around to find him glaring at her… maybe he  _hadn’t_  been glaring.

“Oh?” she says, her voice more of a squeak.

He seems to be waiting for more of a response than that.

She doesn’t have a clue what to say, so there’s only one thing for it.

She shivers.

“Are you alright?” he says, pacing toward her. “You’re shaking. Are you cold?”

“Freezing,” she says, faintly.

At least  _that’s_  not a lie.

He touches his hand to her forehead. “You’re burning up,” he says. “Are you sick?”

“I do feel a little faint,” she says. His fingers are pleasantly cool against her skin.

With a concerned look, he shrugs the coat from his shoulders and wraps it around hers.

_Oh my_ , she thinks.  _So much for a quick getaway._

For a moment, she’s hesitant to touch it, afraid of shattering the illusion. But then she buries her fingers in the lining, pulling the coat close around her. It’s warmer than she even imagined, and smells of leather and sheep, of armor grease and fusion cells. Perhaps a little touch of sweat and soap, too, which isn’t  _entirely_  unpleasant.

“I’ll take you to Cade,” he says.

“No,“ she says. “I mean… I just need to sit down. For a minute. Or ten.”

He helps her to a chair. Closing her eyes, she brushes her cheek against the collar, and tries not to smile.

She could get used to this.


	6. “Is there a reason you’re naked in my bed?” - Paladin Danse, Deacon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Is there a reason you’re naked in my bed?”  
> Characters/Relationship: Paladin Danse, Deacon  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/145584465045/6-with-deacon-and-danse-pretty-please  
> Content advice: Quality Bantz(TM)

**“Is there a reason you’re naked in my bed?”**

“Aliens?” says Deacon, with a grin.

“No,” says Danse. “Try again.”

“I guess the alternate universe story isn’t gonna hold, either,” says Deacon, putting his hands behind his head.

“No,” says Danse. “You exhausted that one several days ago. Try the truth, as alien a concept as that might be to you.”

“Oh,” says Deacon. “Nice work, weaving the alien reference in there. I am still hurt, though. For the record.”

The big guy folds his arms, and adopts Serious_Expression_2. That’s a powerful one, and probably should earn him at least a  _bit_  of an explanation. __  
  
“It’s a long story,” says Deacon, “involving a bottle of Bobrov’s finest and a set of cards. Of course as the responsible adult of the group, I did not partake in any alcohol. No sir. Some elements, however, may have over-indulged. I’m naming no names, though.”

Danse’s head turns to one side, as though he’s heard something behind him. But, deciding it’s not as interesting as the hot naked guy relaxing in his bed (obviously), he returns his attention to Deacon. “How did you get in here?” he says. “I lock the door for a reason.”

“Locking the door,” says Deacon, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye. “That’s adorable.”

“Start talking,” says Danse, “before I march you out into the courtyard as you are.”

“Kinky,” says Deacon. In response to the deepening frown, he holds up his hands in a gesture of peace. “Alright, fine. We suggested a game of poker.”

“We?” says Danse.

“There was a group of us,” says Deacon, vaguely waving his hand. “The General said she didn’t know how to play, so we said we’d teach her.”

At this, Danse closes his eyes. A pained expression crosses his face.

“Ohh,” says Deacon. “There’s a story, isn’t there? I  _knew_  she was a serial offender. Anyway, long story short, she cleaned us out, in fairly emphatic fashion.”

Then he pulls aside the blanket with a flourish.

Danse slaps a hand over his eyes. “For God’s sake, Deacon.”

“C'mon, Danse,” says Deacon, gesturing toward his boxers. “I’m not  _that_  bad at poker. Unlike  _some_.”

This time, whatever noise Danse hears is loud enough for Deacon to detect as well. It’s coming from the wardrobe, set against the opposite wall of the room.

It’s a snort of laughter.

Danse pulls open the door of the wardrobe. Inside stands MacCready, stark naked and with a drunken grin on his face.

“Hi,” says the sniper, somehow managing to slur a two letter word.

“Robert Joseph MacCready,” says Danse, “put some clothes on.”

“Can’t,” hiccups MacCready. “She’s still got ‘em.”

“Well…” Danse starts, and stops, and lets out a sigh. “You’re in a god-damned wardrobe, use your imagination.”

MacCready smiles vacantly.

“Of all the places in the Castle,” says Danse, turning to Deacon, “why  _my_ room?”

“It was the obvious choice,” says Deacon, reaching under the bed, pulling out his jeans, and starting to drag them on. “We figured she’d come here eventually.”

A smile creeps onto the side of Danse’s mouth.

Transparent. As previously mentioned.

“And maybe she’d take pity on us and return our clothes,” continues Deacon, swinging his feet to the floor, and into his shoes.

MacCready staggers out of the wardrobe, attempting to button up a shirt that hangs off his small frame like a tent. “Where’s my hat?” he says.

“That was the first thing to go,” Deacon reminds him. “You seemed pretty keen to get rid of it, actually.”

Danse frowns at Deacon. That means he’s thinking. Don’t worry, he’ll work it out soon. 

Deacon puts an arm around MacCready’s shoulders. “C'mon, Mac. Let’s get out of here. We know when we’re not wanted, right?”

“Yeah,” says MacCready, leaning heavily against him. “Where’s my hat?”

“Aliens took it,” says Deacon.

“Oh,” says MacCready. “Okay. I better get a new one then.”

“Get out,” says Danse. “Now.”

Out in the corridor, Deacon leans Mac against the doorframe. “Wait there,” he says.

The sniper slides slowly, almost gracefully down it, landing on the floor with a bump. Probably didn’t hurt, though, judging by the serene expression on his face.

Deacon pats him on the head and goes back into the room. “'Scuse me,” he says, reaching past Danse and opening a drawer. He retrieves his t-shirt, and pulls it on over his head, almost dislodging his glasses which would have been  _really_  embarrassing. “Can’t believe I nearly forgot that. Comfortable bed, by the way. Might find me in there again, some day.”

“Lose the boxers next time,” says Danse, pushing him out into the corridor.

“Oh,” says Deacon, staring at the door that’s just shut in his face. “Good play. But now it’s  _really_  on.”


	7. “Hey, have you seen the..? Oh.” - Arthur Maxson, Female Sole Survivor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Hey, have you seen the..? Oh.”  
> Characters/Relationship: Arthur Maxson, Female Sole Survivor  
> URL:http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/145626155205/46maxson-and-female-sole  
> Content advice: n/a

**“Hey, have you seen the..? Oh.”**

She pauses with her hand in mid-air, able only to watch as her fingers continue their action.

_Snap_.

The Elder doesn’t even blink.

_Well done, self,_  she thinks.  _You’ve just snapped your fingers right in the face of possibly the most powerful man in the Commonwealth right now. You know, the one who spends most of his time glaring and barking orders at you._

She retrieves her hand, flexing her fingers and rolling her wrist. “Sorry,” she says. “I thought you were Paladin Danse.”

_Because that’s so much better_ , she thinks.  _Gosh, well done, you’re really covering yourself in glory today._

“No,” says Maxson. “I’m not.”

She smiles, a weak smile, and returns her attention to the rifle, trying to remember what she was doing.

“What were you looking for?” he asks.

“It’s alright,” she says, reaching out and dragging the toolbox toward her. “I’ll get it.”

“I do know my way around a toolbox,” he says, dragging it back. “What did you need?”

_Something to beat the crap out of this piece of junk_ , she thinks.

She clears her throat. “Uh,” she says. “I’m not sure, actually. Hence the… the finger-snapping. Sorry about that.”

He shakes his head.  _It’s nothing._  Or that’s what she hopes it means.

“You know Danse,” she says. “He always knows. ‘Oh, you want to make that plate sit flat? The articulated samophlange will do the trick. Make sure you hit it at the right angle, though, you don’t want to damage the rubberized coating’. Or… whatever. That’s more of a power armor thing.”

The Elder’s expression doesn’t change. Maybe he doesn’t know that side of him.

She clears her throat again. “I’d better wait for him,” she says. “He’s the expert.”

“Perhaps I can help,” he says.

She swallows. “I’m sure you have more important things to…” but before she’s finished, he’s picked the rifle up from the workbench, and is twisting and turning it in his hands. 

“Does it have a name?” he asks.

“What,” she says. “The rifle?”

_A name,_  she thinks.  _Who names a weapon?_ _Oh yeah, Danse. And apparently the Elder, too._

“It’s a nice piece,” he says. “Is it your regular weapon? Surely it’s saved your life enough times to be given the honor of a name.”

“No,” she says. “I have a pistol. That doesn’t have a name, either.”

She pulls it out of its holster, balances it on her palm. It’s unchanged from when she took it from Kellogg’s corpse. She’d wiped off the blood, ripped the spare ammo from his pockets, and that was that.

“What do you think, when you use it?” he asks.

She takes a breath, hesitates before she speaks. There are words, floating in her mind. Words she said when that pistol was pointing at her, or maybe just words she’d wanted to say. For a moment she’s back in Fort Hagen, the suits of power armor and orange-clad Knights replaced by glittering terminals and synths. The Elder is reversed; his eyes dark, his head stripped of hair, his scar moved to the other side of his face.

She looks deep into his eyes.

“See you in hell,” she says.

She feels the rush of grief again, the deep ache of a loss that can never be restored, no matter how far she goes for vengeance. She screws shut her eyes, concentrates on the sound of the Prydwen’s engines, the reassuring footsteps of an armor-clad Paladin, anything that brings her back to where she really is.

When she opens her eyes, the Elder’s are blue again, and trained on hers. He nods, briefly, thoughtfully. “It’s a fine name,” he says.

She puts away the pistol, taking slow, steady breaths.

Putting the rifle down on the workbench, he brushes the dust from his fingers. Then he reaches a hand to her shoulder.

“Don’t let it consume you,” he says. “You’re better than that.” 


	8. “No one needs to know” - Paladin Danse, MacCready, Their Hair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “No one needs to know.”  
> Characters/Relationship: Paladin Danse, MacCready, Their Hair  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/145666349790/ok-47-danse-and-maccready-and-their-hair  
> Content advice: n/a

**“No one needs to know.”**

“What?” says Danse.

The sniper shrugs, and scratches the back of his head, again. “You heard me.”

As if it weren’t bad enough that the General had left Danse in the Castle with this barely-organised rabble, she’d left him in charge of arranging guard duty. He’d drawn up the rota, distributed roles fairly and evenly, and tried to ensure that the skills of those on duty were complimentary.

Unfortunately, that meant that more often than not, he ended up with MacCready. The sniper who never seems to stop talking.

Now, of all things, he’s talking about hair.

“Look,” says MacCready. “It’s just something that comes up sometimes. What does the boss do with all those typewriters. Is that a supermutant breaking down the gates or is it Deacon’s newest disguise. What does Danse’s hair actually feel like. You know. Idle conversation.”

“People  _talk_  about that?” says Danse, bewildered. “It’s just hair.”

MacCready pushes his hat up his forehead to look him right in the eyes. “Trust me,” he says. “It’s never  _just_   _hair_. Not with these guys, anyway.”

Danse shakes his head, and focuses back on the mainland. There’s been almost no movement there for days. Weeks, even. A whole Commonwealth, full of dangers, and this is where he’s stuck.

“C'mon,” says MacCready.

“No,” says Danse.

“Please?” says MacCready, a wheedling tone in his voice.

Danse ignores him.

“You know I won’t give up,” says MacCready.

Danse closes his eyes, counts to five, and opens them again. “If I say yes,” he says, “will you stop talking?”

The sniper grins. “Maybe. Alright, yes. At least until the end of the watch.”

Danse sighs. “Fine. Do it quickly.”

The sniper reaches up and touches his hair, first with one hand, then with both. “Oh wow,” he says, running his fingers through it more vigorously than Danse had expected. “That’s better than I imagined. How’d you get it so… springy?“  

Danse avoids his eyes, and folds his arms. “This may well be the most humiliating thing I’ve endured since entering the Commonwealth.”

“Come on,” says MacCready. “Lighten up. At least there’s nobody around to see it.”

“A small mercy,” says Danse.

MacCready whips off his cap, runs his fingers through his own hair, and stands expectantly before him. “Okay, do me.”

Danse stares dumbly at him.

“Go ahead,” says MacCready.

“Why would I want to?” asks Danse.

“It’s only fair,” says the sniper. “And you mean to say you’ve never felt the urge? Man. The boss was ruffling my hair within minutes of meeting me.”

“She was what?” says Danse, his brow furrowing. “And you  _let_  her?”

“Sure I did,” says MacCready, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “She was paying me. Besides, who doesn’t like having their hair touched? I know she does.”

Danse shoots him a warning look, which the sniper completely misinterprets.

“See? You’re curious, aren’t you,”  says MacCready. “C'mon.”

Danse lets out an exasperated sigh, and reaches out a hand. Despite its filthy appearance, the sniper’s hair is smooth, and soft, like a cat’s.

“Curious,” he says. “It’s…”

He stops, hearing an odd noise coming from beyond the wall. A rattling sound. Danse frowns in its direction, trying to work out what it might be, but there’s nothing there. 

Or is there.

A faint shimmer in the air resolves into the shape of Deacon, holding a can of water. A striped plastic straw sticks out of it.

“Busted,” he says, with a grin.

Danse pulls back his hand as fast as he can.

MacCready just nods. “Hey Deeks,” he says.

“Deacon,” says Danse, trying to recover his composure, “this is a very frivolous use of a Stealth-Boy. ”

“Frivolous?” says Deacon. “Hardly. Getting to witness the coming together of the two finest heads of hair in the Castle, perhaps even the Commonwealth? Worth every percentage point of the increased risk of psychosis.”

“That’s absurd,” says Danse.

“C'mon, Deacon,” says MacCready, snorting with laughter. “Go easy on us. Nobody needs to know.”

The dregs of Deacon’s drink make a loud rattling noise as he drains the last from the can. “Nobody  _needs_  to know anything,” he says. “But whether I tell them anyway is a  _completely_  different matter.” 


	9. “Have you lost your damn mind?” - Nick Valentine, Female Sole Survivor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Have you lost your damn mind?”  
> Characters/Relationship: Nick Valentine, Female Sole Survivor  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/145748702685/for-the-prompt-number-2-with-fsosu-and-nick  
> Content advice: excessively noir. wait, who am I kidding, you can never have too much noir.

The rain had come down in buckets the night before. Every wall in the place was covered with unsavory-looking stains, dark streaks oozing down from overflowing gutters and darker mud-spatters kicked up from the sodden ground. Against that backdrop she looked positively angelic, which was an impressive illusion to pull off given what he knew about her.

She turned to face him then, her hair barely ruffled by the breeze. She narrowed her eyes.

“You’re the second person to ask me that in the last few days,” she said.

“That so?” he said, lighting a cigarette.

She’d asked him to meet her outside her place in Diamond City, on the outskirts of the market. Said she had something to discuss, something important. Something that had sounded like crazy talk to him. The topic of conversation didnt seem to be getting much better.

“Who’s this other guy?” he asked. “I think I like him already.”

She took a step toward him, biting her thumbnail, batting her eyelashes. “He was tall, dark, and handsome,” she said, “and ended up in the sea.”

_Threats_ , he thought,  _at seven in the morning. This dame sure starts early._

“Well,” he said, “I’m scrawny, grey, and half made of metal so I sure hope that doesn’t happen to me.”

She tossed her head and looked down her nose at him.

“No,” she said. “It’ll be the Marina for you. Sit you in a car, drop a brick on the accelerator, send you right off the end of the pier. Nobody’ll ever know.”

“That’s fine,” he said. “Don’t put the throttle down too far, unless you want it to look suspicious. And watch out for fingerprints, there’s a detective around here who’s pretty hot on tracking down criminals.”

The corner of her mouth twitched up, just for a second. “Nick,” she said. “I think you just said you’re going to solve your own murder.”

“Listen, kid,” he said, tossing the spent cigarette into the mud. “If you want to make every time we meet into some movie pastiche that’s fine, but don’t expect me to be able to keep your storylines straight. What is this, anyway, Marlowe? Who’s the smart-mouthed broad?”

She shrugged. “Generic femme fatale. I don’t know, I kinda lost track too.”

“You still haven’t answered my question,” he said.

“True,” she said, folding her arms. “No, I have not lost my mind. I just need to go into the Glowing Sea again. And we had such a good time there before I thought I’d give you first refusal. Maybe phrasing it the way I did wasn’t the best idea but come on, it’s early.”

_Hey Valentine_ , she’d said, in a sultry tone.  _You’re looking a little pale, how bout we take a trip to the Glowing Sea, catch some rads, get a bit of color back in your cheeks._

“Fine,” he said, “as long as you’ve got the requisite bucket of Rad-X. But you might want to think about wearing a hat, gets pretty bright down by the Sea.”

She patted a hand on the power armor that stood outside her door like a giant and looming sentry. “Fully-charged and ready to go. It’ll be like old times, two metal pals tripping hand-in-hand through the rotting wastes of the city.”

“Sounds beautiful,” he said. “Do I have to take you?”

She grinned. “Yes,” she said. “And we’ll be stopping off at the Marina on the way. So don’t push your luck.”


	10. “Have I entered an alternate universe or did you really just crack a smile for me?” - Arthur Maxson, Female Sole Survivor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Have I entered an alternate universe or did you really just crack a smile for me?”  
> Characters/Relationship: Arthur Maxson, Female Sole Survivor  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/145773884290/40-maxson-and-sole-male-or-female-sole-its-up  
> Content advice: reports. I think about them a lot, sorry.

He’s sitting in the mess hall, trying to read a report while shovelling noodles into his mouth. It’s not the greatest pair of activities to attempt to perform at the same time, he has at least three grease spots on the page already, but needs must. When he gets back to his quarters, he has another pile of reports to read. And on the way there, Quinlan will probably poke his head out of his office.

‘Ah, Elder,’ he’ll say. ‘I have another couple of reports for you.’

There will be five, because that’s Quinlan’s definition of ‘a couple’.

That’s not his biggest concern right now. That - or, to be more polite, she - is sitting right opposite him. Not only does she have an amused expression on her face, he has a stupid smile on his, and he can’t seem to wipe it off.

He coughs, crams another forkful of noodles in his mouth, and then coughs some more when they go down the wrong hole.

She stands up, leans over, and smacks him between the shoulder blades.

It doesn’t help.

His face is burning, tears are falling from his eyes, and his throat feels like he’s been swallowing gravel all day. When she disappears, and returns a moment later with a mug of water, he takes it gratefully.

“Let’s pretend,” she says, “that this is the alternate universe in which you just said 'hi’ instead of trying to be all dramatic.” She smiles, and folds her arms on the table. “Or maybe the one in which  _I_  just said hi and never mentioned the alternate universe, thus never causing the time rift in the first place.”

“What?” he asks.

“The time-rift,” she says, then shakes her head. “Sorry. I’ve been spending too much time around… well, a friend with an overactive imagination.”

He tries to return to the report.

She picks a morsel out of her bowl of noodles and inspects it. “Yikes,” she says. “I am not going to ask what this is.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

“Yeah,” she says. “You do seem to have spent a long time reading that. What is it?”

“A report,” he says, tersely.

“Huh,” she says. “Interesting reading?”

It’s probably not appropriate to pass judgement on an official document. But after hours of work, and boredom, and the choking incident, he doesn’t much care.

“No,” he says.

“Well,” she says, “fire your report-writers. Can I see?”

He considers this for a moment. There’s nothing confidential in this report. Just the results of a small sweep-and-retrieve. Deciding that it can’t hurt, he slides it across the table to her.

She flips it open, and turns through the pages at surprising speed. “Jeez,” she says. “Have the Brotherhood of Steel never heard of an executive summary? Humanity really has fallen a long way.”

He pauses, with another mouthful of noodles dangerously close to choking him.

“I feel your pain,” she says. “Maybe I could help you out with this? I’ll read the reports, give you a one-page summary, and you can get some time back. Maybe then you can take long enough with your food that you stop trying to kill yourself with it.”

“That would be…” he struggles for a word. Probably inappropriate, she’s no Scribe after all. But the thought of not having to read every single word in the giant stack of reports is very welcome.

“That would be appreciated,” he says, finally.

She stands up, her chair scraping on the floor. Before she goes, she leans over in a conspiratorial fashion. “Now you know it’s an alternate universe,” she says, “if I’m volunteering for paperwork. Watch out for giant rats, you never know what else might have changed.”

If she notices the smile on his face that time, she doesn’t mention it.


	11. “You fainted… straight into my arms...” - Deacon, Female Sole Survivor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “You fainted… straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such extremes.” and "Come over here and make me."  
> Characters/Relationship: Deacon, Female Sole Survivor  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/145819276150/pairing-38-and-1-for-fsole-and-deacon-plzzz  
> Content advice: n/a

**“You fainted… straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”**

She blinks up at the sky before replying. “It worked though, right?”

Deacon’s hands are shaking. He steadies them on his knees, which are pushed up right against her side. His heart’s beating like a monkey banging a pair of cymbals, i.e., probably loud enough to summon every raider left in the neighborhood.

So, yeah.

“In a manner of speaking,” he says.

She pulls herself upright with a groan, rubbing her eyes.

“You’re lucky,” he continues. “I was about to give you up for dead. Leave you for the molerats.”

“Why’d you have a stimpak in your hand, then?” she asks.

Sharp as a fuckin’ knife, as always. He hadn’t even noticed her look around.

“That was for me,” he says. “For my about-to-be-broken heart. I guess I don’t need it now.” He holds it out. “You need it?”

She looks over her shoulder at him, a lopsided smile on her face. “Nah,” she says. “I’m good.”

Her skin’s still pale and not a little waxy, and her pupils don’t seem to be the right size. Doesn’t look good, but she’s moving, at least. She drags herself to lean against the wall, her head lolling back against the brickwork, her arms hanging useless by her side.

“What did happen, then?” she asks. “Last thing I remember is coming out of that raider den.”

“Yeah,” says Deacon. “We came out of the raider den, you turned to face me, you said ‘Deacon, I simply can’t bear it any more, I must tell you how I feel’ and then you fell to your knees.”

She pauses for a moment. “I thought you said I fainted into your arms?”

Deacon shrugs. “I caught you. Well, to be honest, I thought you were about to propose so it was more of a  _no no no get up get up not here people might see_ sort of response.”

She shakes her head, lets out a steady breath through pursed lips. He can’t tell if she’s pissed off or in pain or dizzy or what the hell is wrong with her at all.

“C'mon,” she says, “it’d be a nice moment. Wouldn’t you want to share that with your closest raider friends? We could stage an engagement photoshoot over their still-bleeding corpses.”

“Nah,” says Deacon. “How would we one-up that for the wedding photos?”

“Deathclaw-drawn carriage,” she says. “Duh.”

“Okay,” he says. “That answer came far too fast. Now I know this whole thing was premeditated.”

He shuffles away, grabs his pack, digs around in it to see if he’s got some water or nuka-cola or something to put some color back in her cheeks.

“I think about it a lot, okay,” she says, from behind him. “Codsworth in a top hat. Dogmeat in a top hat.”

“Me in a top hat?” he asks.

“Only if you can fit it on top of that wig.”

He turns to face her. Slowly. Dramatically. Folds his arms, even, for effect.

She gasps, lifting her hand to her mouth in mock horror. “Hair,” she says. “Do. Style. Coiffure. Not wig. Definitely not.”

Now he knows she’s alright.

“Okay,” he says. “I’m offended. You lure me out here, pretend to faint in my arms, and then cast aspersions on my completely natural and self-grown hair? I’m going to need you to apologize.”

She grins, and pats the ground beside her. 

**“Come over here and make me.”**


	12. “If you keep looking at me like that, we’re not going to make it to a bed" - Arthur Maxson/Female Sole Survivor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “If you keep looking at me like that, we’re not going to make it to a bed.”  
> Characters/Relationship: Arthur Maxson/Female Sole Survivor  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/145873854840/34-with-sole-and-maxson  
> Content advice: too many italics.

**“If you keep looking at me like that, we’re not going to make it to a bed.”**

She lifts her mug to her lips, drains it, and puts it back down on the workbench. She nudges it toward him with the backs of her fingers.

He wasn’t aware he was looking at her in any particular way, but if he was, it’s hardly surprising. She’s the General of the Minutemen. The Destroyer of the Institute. Sentinel of the Brotherhood of Steel. Maybe his lover, too, and he’s not sure which of those titles fills him with the most pride.

He pulls the cork from the bottle, and pours her another shot.

The night before the final battle against the Institute, there had been a knock on his door. He’d been ready to shout, to threaten disciplinary action for disturbing his sleep on such a critical night. He hadn’t been asleep. He’d been sat with a bottle of scotch and six months of difficult decisions weighing on his mind. It was the principle of the thing.

But then he’d opened the door, and it was her. And she hadn’t met his eyes, for the first time since he’d met her.

Pre-battle nerves.

_I’m not a soldier_ , she’d said.  _It’s pure luck I’ve made it this far. I don’t think I’ll make it through tomorrow._

_Have some confidence_ , he’d replied.  _With Liberty Prime behind us, and a suit of Brotherhood armor on your back, you’ll be fine._

_You’re probably right,_  she’d said.  _But just in case, I need to… not to be alone._

But that was the night before battle. Things are different, in those circumstances. Rules are relaxed, blind eyes turned. If politics make strange bedfellows, wars make them even stranger.

He’d tried not to read too much into it.

The next day, the battle had been vicious, but they’d won. In the aftermath, she disappeared, long enough for even the Minutemen to start asking pointed questions.

But then she returned.

This is supposed to be her celebration. From the airport hangar, the sounds of partying are echoing up to the cloud-filled sky. He’s tracked her down to the old departure lounge, finding her perched on a workbench, staring at her power armor. The suit tells the story of the battle, in a complex pattern of dents and scorchmarks. It speaks of grim-faced Coursers and desperate scientists. The shattered breastplate and fused joints show her determination and bravery.

If he thought he loved her before, he’s certain now.

He takes the mug from her hand, and puts it to one side. As if reading his mind, she reaches out to curl her fingers around the collar of his coat, pulling him in between her parting thighs.

All the beds are on the Prydwen, a vertibird ride away.

The way she’s looking at him says they’re not going to make it that far.


	13. “Please, don’t leave" - Paladin Danse, Deacon, MacCready

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Please, don’t leave"  
> Characters/Relationship: Paladin Danse, Deacon, MacCready  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/145908883694/i-love-how-you-have-danse-deacon-and-maccready  
> Content advice: Quality Bantz(TM)

**“Please, don’t leave,”**  says MacCready.

Danse ignores him. Stolidly. Danse does a lot of things stolidly, but he’s  _really_ good at ignoring people in that kind of a fashion. This time, he adds to the effect by pushing open the door so hard it slams back against the wall, and stomping away through the inner ring of the Castle.

“Uh-oh,” says Mac, with a worried look on his face.

“He’s fine,” says Deacon. “You know what he’s like.”

“I dunno,” says MacCready. “He did look pretty angry.”

Deacon grins. “And that’s different to his normal face how, exactly?”

MacCready leans forward over the table. “C'mon, Deacon,” he says. “Look, if the boss gets back and finds out we’ve spent the entire time being assh… uh, being mean to him, she’ll kill us.”

“Assholes?” says Deacon, enunciating the word carefully. “Well, now I’m offended. You may have been being an asshole, but I’ve just been being my usual charming self.”

“Yeah,” says MacCready, pushing his chair away from the table. “I think that’s part of the problem.”

When they arrive at the big guy’s room, he’s throwing things into a pack.

“Where are you going?” asks MacCready.

“That’s none of your concern,” says Danse. He opens a cupboard and pulls out some provisions. A few cans of water, that he balances in those big ol’ hands before tossing them carelessly into the pack. And two unopened boxes of snack cakes. That’s going to last him at least a day, maybe even two.

He really  _is_  going somewhere.

For the first time in a long time, Deacon wonders if he might have gone too fa… too f…

Naaah.

“We were just having a bit of fun, Danse,” says MacCready.

“I’m sure  _you_  were,” says Danse. His eyebrows are lowered into a frown, his glare impressively dark.

“You know what they say,” says Deacon. “Laughter is the best therapy. We were just trying to help, really.”

“I don’t need therapy,” says Danse. “I need to be away from you two.”

“Listen,” says MacCready. “I’m sorry. I don’t really think that power armor means you’re over-compensating for… something. Nor does Deacon.” He accompanies the statement with an elbow to the ribs. “Do you?”

Deacon just grins.

Danse shuts the cupboard. Stolidly. Well, loudly, anyway. “We’re done here,” he says.

“Seriously, man,” says MacCready, with a helpless drop of the shoulders. “At least tell us where you’re going.”

Danse frowns for a moment longer. From his pocket, he pulls a dirt-stained piece of paper, which he hands to MacCready. At the same time, he gives Deacon a significant look. At a guess, it signifies  _I don’t trust you to actually read this out._

Which is  _completely_  unfair, obviously.

MacCready unfolds it and reads it out loud. “ _Danse, get yourself to Diamond City ASAP, I need you for something_. It’s signed by the General.”

Deacon folds his arms and leans against the doorframe. He’s almost impressed. Danse managed to string the both of them along for a good few minutes, and convincingly too. 

Of course, he’s not going to tell  _him_  that.

“Oh. Hey!” he says. “Personal summons. Nice.”

“Aww man,” says MacCready. “You should have said. You had me worried there.”

“And miss the chance to see you squirm?” says Danse, with a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Now where’s the fun in that.”


	14. “Looks like we’ll be trapped for a while…” - Paladin Danse, John Hancock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Looks like we’ll be trapped for a while…”  
> Characters/Relationship: Paladin Danse, John Hancock  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/145932632210/17-for-danse-and-hancock-c  
> Content advice:

**“Looks like we’ll be trapped for a while…”**

Danse closes his eyes. Not that it makes much of a difference, dark as it is. “Why were you in the cupboard anyway?” he asks.

“You may not be aware of this,” says Hancock, “but Diamond City ain’t so fond of ghouls. I just popped in here in case the noisy asshole banging at the door turned out not to be the tolerant type.”

Danse feels something poke him in the chest. Most likely a finger.

“So,” says Hancock. “Question is, why’d you follow me in?”

“Because,” says Danse, perhaps a little defensively. “I heard a noise. I decided to investigate in case there were some threat.”

Then the door had blown shut behind him. And now it was stuck, no matter how much of his weight he leaned against it, or how noisily Hancock jiggled the handle.

“It’s fine,” says Hancock. “It’s a little snug, perhaps, but I’m not complainin’.”

Neither is Danse. Not out loud, anyway. He’d had thirty seconds with the General before she had to run out to speak to some vendor. Now two minutes later, he’s trapped in a cupboard with a goddamned ghoul. 

He would have been better off staying in the Castle. Hancock is doing little to disavow him of that notion. Especially not when, after a couple of minutes, there’s a hiss, a satisfied sigh, and a sickly waft of second-hand jet filling the air.

“Really?” says Danse.

“I get claustrophobic, don’t I,” says Hancock.

“It smells vile,” says Danse.

“Oh,” says Hancock. “Can’t say I’d noticed.”

A few minutes more, and Danse starts to notice something digging into his hip. “Hancock,” he says.

“Yeah?” says Hancock.

“What is that?”

There’s a pause. Hancock lets out a dry, rasping laugh. “That, my friend, is the gun in my pocket,” he says. “But I am also pleased to see you, in case you’re wonderin’.”

Danse counts to five before replying. “Please move it.”

“Suit yourself,” says Hancock.

The pressure disappears.

After what seems like an eternity, but is probably only ten minutes, a waft of cold air and a shift of the door in its frame suggests that the General has returned. Hancock is first to bang on the door. “Lemme out,” he says. “Kidnapping a mayor is a very serious crime, I’ll have you know. Wait, that’s not so scary. Okay, Fahrenheit’ll have your guts, how’s that?”

There’s a scuffle, a creak, and the door swings open to reveal the General.

“Sorry, John,” she says. She’s waving a broken piece of wood in her hand. “This had wedged itself under the door. What happened to Danse… Oh.”

She pauses, looking slowly between the two of them, before settling her eyes on his. “Uh, Danse,” she says. “I’m not going to ask why you were in there too.”

Danse sets his shoulders and exits the cupboard with as much dignity as he can muster. “Please don’t,” he says, heading for a couch on the far side of the room.

She presses her lips tight together, and adopts an expression of concern that looks slightly forced. “You’re both looking kinda… spacey, are you alright?”

“Contact high,” says Hancock, dusting down his coat, and finally stepping out of the cupboard.

“Goddamnit, John,” she says. “Were you huffing jet in my wardrobe again?”

“Absolutely not,” he says, with a grin. “I just meant the high from contact with such a handsome gentleman as Mr Danse here. And, reciprocally, for my good self, of course.”

“Sure,” she says, with a shake of her head. “I mean, obviously. I don’t know why I asked.”


	15. “Don’t you dare throw that snowba… goddammit!” - Paladin Danse, Arthur Maxson, Male Sole Survivor (Nate McKay)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Don’t you dare throw that snowba… goddammit!”  
> Characters/Relationship: Paladin Danse, Arthur Maxson, Male Sole Survivor (Nate McKay)  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/145972889640/11-danse-and-maxson  
> Content advice: n/a

**“Don’t you dare throw that snowba… goddammit!”**

Danse can only watch as Nate lets the snowball fly. It cuts a graceful arc through the air, rising toward the bright blue sky, curving back down to land right on the side of the Elder’s face. It explodes into a glittering cloud of snow and ice.

“Boom,” says Nate. “Headshot.”

Maxson, taken by surprise and almost knocked off-balance, throws out his hands to steady himself. With his footing secured, he turns to check the source of the projectile. His face is like thunder, even more so than usual. He narrows his eyes, and glares directly at Danse.

That’s when Danse realises that  _he’s_  the one in trouble.

Nate has dropped to the ground, hidden from the Elder’s sight behind a set of the old departure lounge seats, currently piled high with snow. The grin on his face is almost obscenely wide.

“Get up, Knight,” says Danse. “I’m not taking responsibility for this.”

“No way,” says Nate. “I’m the element of surprise. Stop looking at me before you give me away.”

Danse looks back up to assess the situation. The Elder is too far away to hear any apology, and he’s still frowning. That’s why he’s so surprised when Maxson pulls back his arm and hurls a snowball of his own, right at him. Acting entirely on reflex, he holds up his hand to deflect the blow. The snowball just catches the side of his palm, missing his face but still sending a shower of ice down his front.

“Wow,” says Nate. “Good reactions. Do you play volleyball? I want you on my team.”

“This is your fault,” says Danse, as another snowball flies over his head. An indistinct curse floats toward them across the silent airport.

“Yup,” says Nate, still grinning up at him. “And I told you to stop looking at me. Head thataway, I have an idea.”

Danse heaves a sigh, and starts to roll up a snowball. The Elder is moving at a roughly steady pace, so he calculates the appropriate trajectory and hurls it with approximately the right force. The hit glances off the Elder’s shoulder.

Disappointing. But not bad for the first throw.

He fends off the next icy missile with his arm. He covers a little more ground, drawing the Elder away from the seat-based snowdrift, though he’s not entirely sure why he’s doing as Nate told him. He’s the Paladin; Nate’s the Knight. Yet somehow he keeps ending up persuaded into mischief.

He tries not to think too hard about that.

He throws another snowball at the Elder, this time hitting him right in the center of his chest.

“This is gross insubordination,” shouts Maxson, wiping himself down, but continuing his attack.

“This is two against one, more like,” calls Nate, jumping out of cover and hurling another snowball directly at the back of Maxson’s head.

The Elder looks around in surprise, just in time for the snowball to hit the other side of his face.

After that, Nate’s too busy laughing to pay attention. He’s laughing so hard, in fact, that the Elder is able to stalk toward him, grab his collar, and deposit a large handful of snow down the back of his jacket.

“Oh fuck,” says Nate, reaching around to loosen his jacket and shake the snow out. While trying, he loses his footing and falls on his back.

Then the Elder does something Danse hasn’t seen him do in months.

He laughs.

It’s a warm, genuine laugh, the kind Nate throws around a dozen times a day. The kind that reminds you that a person is human, no matter how many layers of armor and duty they pull around themselves.

“Okay,” says Nate, lying in the snow, staring up at the sky. “I probably deserved that.”

Danse holds out his hand, helps the Knight to his feet.

He finds himself laughing too.


	16. “I got you a present” - Paladin Danse, John Hancock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “I got you a present.”  
> Characters/Relationship: Paladin Danse, John Hancock  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/146103671615/26-hancock-and-danse  
> Content advice: juvenile humour

**“I got you a present.”**

Danse kicks shut the door behind him. He drops his pack, which is heavy with supplies and crashes loudly on the floor of the Home Plate. He takes his time shaking the rain from his hair, and takes stock of the situation. There’s no sign of the General. Hancock is sitting on the couch with a box on his lap, and a grin on his face.

Danse can’t help it. His hackles are already up.

“A present,” he says. “What for?”

Hancock shrugs, his hands resting easily on the box, holding it steady. Suspiciously steady. “No reason.”

“There must be,” says Danse.

He’s always been wary of Hancock, even though the General trusts him implicitly. He knows he should too, but it’s just not easy. There’s something in his eyes, and specific to the current situation, something in the way that box is balanced on the ghoul’s lap bothers him.

Hancock tilts his chin. “Alright,” he says. “I been thinkin’. You and me ain’t always seen eye to eye, and that’s a fact. But things have changed, you know? Reversals, couple of misfortunes, a whole lotta destruction. I just want to try to smooth things over. Consider this… a peace offering.”

_Beware the ghoul that bears gifts._

“Why don’t you come on over and open it,” continues Hancock, his black eyes gleaming.

Danse thinks he might have seen this trick before. Every now and again, a new recruit to the Brotherhood would think they were the first to think of it. Or an older recruit would consume a little too much whiskey and decide it was time to try it again.

“C'mon,” says Hancock. “I’m gettin’ tired holdin’ this thing.”

At the same time, it might not be a trick. This might truly be a new start. And The General would want him to trust Hancock. So he will. But he steels himself first, just in case. 

Danse crosses the room, reaches out and pulls the lid from the box. Inside lie several items. A bottle of whiskey. A pack of snack cakes. What appears to be some kind of modification for a laser rifle. And something under it all, wrapped in tissue paper. Something flat.

Quite by accident, he lets out a sigh of relief, one that Hancock clearly notices.

“What did you think it was going to be?” asks the ghoul. “Dick in a box?”

Danse tries to keep his face steady, but he can’t stop the flush of heat from reaching his cheeks. “I… I’m not sure what I was expecting,” he says, willing them to cool down.

“Aha,” says Hancock. “Ahahaa, you did, didn’t ya? Oh that’s beautiful.” He laughs a little while longer, the box shaking in his hands. He finally lets go of it, passing it into Danse’s hands with a low chuckle.

Danse clears his throat and tries to rescue the situation. “Thank you,” he says, awkwardly. “This was very thoughtful of you.”

“Surprisin’, ain’t it, from an asshole like me,” says Hancock, with laughter in his voice. “But the General’s a good one, so, you know. We should at least try to get along.”

“Agreed,” says Danse.

Hancock chuckles again. “Dick in a box,” he says, wiping tears from his eyes. “I haven’t done that to Fahrenheit for a long time. I gotta get me back to Goodneighbor.”


	17. “I swear, it was an accident” - Arthur Maxson, Deacon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “I swear, it was an accident.”  
> Characters/Relationship: Arthur Maxson, Deacon  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/146110622515/42-for-maxson-and-deacon  
> Content advice: 
> 
> This fic also appears in [The Deaconomicon](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8317723/chapters/19048072).

**“I swear, it was an accident.”**

The Elder picked up the file, and shook it. Droplets of brown liquid spattered onto the mess hall table and the floor, filling the air with the smell of sugar. He sighed in irritation, furrowed his brow, all of the usual stuff. You know how he is.

“I would hope so,” he said. “Otherwise there would be some serious questions to be asked.”

The Initiate - a very handsome fellow - was still hovering nearby with an empty bottle in his hand. He’d just been walking past the Elder’s table when a chair had jumped out and tangled with his ankles, causing him to trip. He’d tried to break his fall with a hand on the table; unfortunately, that hand had contained a freshly-opened bottle of Nuka-Cola. Now the table contained most of the Nuka-Cola.

So did the report with the word ‘Railroad’ in the title.

The Elder glared up at the Initiate, wiping sugary goo from his hands. He was probably trying to work out who this devilishly handsome fellow was. “Why are you wearing sunglasses in here?” he asked. “Take them off.”

Rude.

“Can’t,” replied the Initiate.

The Elder glared some more. “Why not?”

“Doctor’s orders,” said the Initiate.

The Elder, still glaring, drummed his fingers on the table for good effect.

The Initate couldn’t (and still can’t) read minds but he was willing to bet that what was going through that angry little brain under that neat little undercut was something like:

 _One._  
Two.  
Three.  
Four.  
Fi…

“Retinopathy,” said the Initiate, just as the Elder was opening his mouth to speak. “A stockpile of fusion cores went off right in front of me. Boom. Happened three weeks ago and I still can’t see orange.”

The Initiate looked down at himself. “Oh shit. I am wearing the right color, right?”

The Elder’s lips tightened. He had an answer to one question, sure, but it looked like there was another one just poking a tentative toe into the waters of the big guy’s mind.

“I don’t know your face, soldier,” said the Elder. “Where are you from?”

“University Point,” said the Initiate.

“You’re from the Commonwealth, then,” said the Elder. “I wasn’t aware that we were openly recruiting.”

“Yeah,” said the Initiate. “Knight who recruited me told me there’d be power armor and hot men. Looking forward to getting my hands on both, if you know what I’m saying.”

The Elder narrowed his eyes. “No,” he said “I don’t know.”

The Initiate grinned lasciviously. “Maybe I can show you?”

Slamming his hands on the table, sending a fine spray of Nuka-Cola into the air, the Elder rose to his feet. Quite an imposing sight, what with the big beard and big shoulders and even bigger coat. And the fury, of course.

“Perhaps,” he said, wiping his hands clean again, “you don’t realise who I am. As you’re a new recruit, I am willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. Once. I am Elder Maxson of the Brotherhood of…”

The Initiate snorted. “Elder? Sure, kid. Whatever.”

At this, the Elder bristled.

(Yeah, visibly. It’s a thing you can only do with a beard of a certain length and magnificence.)

“You will speak to me with more respect,” he said, “or I’ll have you thrown off the ship.”

“Oh,” said the Initiate. “Is that before or after I get my power armor?”

 

And that, kids, is the story of how I got thrown off the Prydwen the  _first_ time. 100% true and verified.


	18. “This is without a doubt the stupidest plan you’ve ever had. Of course I’m in.” Cait, Piper Wright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “This is without a doubt the stupidest plan you’ve ever had. Of course I’m in.”  
> Characters/Relationship: Cait, Piper Wright  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/146118962385/18-this-is-without-a-doubt-the-stupidest-plan  
> Content advice: n/a

**“This is without a doubt the stupidest plan you’ve ever had. Of course I’m in.”**

Cait gets down on one knee and laces her fingers together.

“Wait,” says Piper. “You want me to go up there?”

“Yeah,” says Cait. “Unless you think you can lift me?”

Piper makes an unimpressed noise, and folds her arms. “It’s not that,” she says. “But I can’t pick a lock and I wouldn’t, even if I could. I’ve got my journalistic integrity to think of.”

“I told you already he never locks it,” says Cait. “Besides, it’s your plan. It’s only right that you should have the honour.”

“Fine,” says Piper. She puts her foot into Cait’s hands, and balances her hands on her shoulders.

“Three two one,” says Cait, fast, and boosts her upwards.

Piper lets out an undignified squeak and a  _jeez Cait_ , but she manages to hook her arms over the corrugated iron and drag herself up onto the roof. She disappears from view, just for a moment. There’s some quiet scuffling that can only just be heard over the distant sounds of the market. Then her face reappears over the edge of the roof.

“You know there’s a set of chairs up here,” whispers Piper.

Cait knocks the dirt off her hands, wiping them off down her trousers. “Yeah,” she says. “S'where we sit and throw caps at people in the market, see what they do. Go check the hatch, now will you?”

“That’s you two?” says Piper, one eyebrow high. “Why am I not surprised.”

“Get on with you,” says Cait, waving her hand.

Piper glares, but disappears.

Cait leans against the back wall of the Home Plate, digging dirt out from under her fingernails. All Piper’s got to do is get into the place, and… hold on. Her senses are tingling. Someone’s on the way. 

She keeps inspecting her fingernails. Sure enough, a guy in Diamond City Security garb ambles right up to her.

“So, uh,” he says. “What’re you up to here?”

“What, me?” says Cait. “Nothin’. Just enjoyin’ the night air.”

The guard coughs. “Would you, ah, maybe, like to enjoy a beer? Later? Maybe?”

He’s not a bad looker but she’s got a nervous reporter breaking and entering about six feet above. Plus, in terms of pick-up lines, that was utter shite. So she sighs and leans in close. “Piss off,” she says.

He coughs again, and moves on. Just in time, because a few bits of crap fall down from the roof, telling her that Piper’s looking down again.

“Cait,” says Piper.

Cait scratches her ear.

“Cait!” says Piper.

Cait scratches her ear again, a little more conspicuously this time. When Piper knocks her hand on the wall and calls her name again, she turns to look up at her. “Fuck’s sake,” she says. “You mean he never taught you the signs? He really must think you’re a goody-two-shoes.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Piper. “So, just let me know if I’m supposed to be offended, okay, and I’ll do it once you’ve helped me down.”

“Nah,” says Cait, reaching out and steadying Piper’s legs as she drops down from the roof. “No need to be offended. I like your brand of naive innocence, it’s kinda cute.”

“Yeah, well,” says Piper. “Thanks, I guess.”


	19. "You heard me. Take. It. Off." - Paladin Danse/Female Sole Survivor (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "You heard me. Take. It. Off."  
> Characters/Relationship: Paladin Danse/Female Sole Survivor  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/146170381550/35-dansefss  
> Content advice: nsfw for sexual context. only just starting to get rude though.
> 
> This fic was later extended into [Long Time, No See](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7256347) which definitely is nsfw.

**“You heard me. Take. It. Off.“**

He’s gotten brave, after a few months outside the Brotherhood. Not battle-brave, you understand, he always had that. People-brave. Even since she’d left him in the Castle, there’d been a bit of a change. Better able to see through people’s shit.

“Oh,” she says. “You… you don’t like the dress?”

“You know that’s not what I mean,” he says.

See?

He’d run his fingers down her side, around her waist, watching the sparks fly from the sequin-covered fabric. Spent approximately ten seconds looking for a zip before giving up and just telling her what he wanted.

_Take it off._

Why waste time?

Well. Because that’s what makes it fun. And, after all, the guy’s probably never had a show before.

“Alright,” she says. “Why don’t you take a seat.”

“Because you’re over here,” he says.

Though impressed by the smooth reply, she pokes a finger into his chest and pushes him away, back toward the couch. He looks a little stuffy, still, that bow-tie tight around his neck, so before she lets him sit she loosens it and smoothes the ends down over his shirt.

The tie was a little gift to him, from Hancock.

She pushes him down onto the seat, into which he sinks with a confused expression on his face. When he starts to speak, she presses a gloved finger over his lips. She grabs a bottle of scotch and pours a glass, taking a sip before she presses it into his hand. He tries to catch her fingers but the smooth material slides out of his grasp.

The gloves were Hancock’s gift to her. An unsurprisingly perceptive gift.

Standing in the middle of the room, facing him, she reaches her hands up behind her neck. She undoes the top fastening. Then she lowers her hands, one by one, the first to hold the dress closed, the second to undo the zip. She lets it down, as far as it can go, then turns around.

She pulls the dress from one shoulder, making sure he has enough time to appreciate the exposed flesh. Then she pulls it from the other side, in a similar fashion. She pulls the sleeves down her arms, and looks back at him.

His eyes are wide, and dark. Those beautiful lips of his are parted, as though he’s forgotten to close them. And his hand’s clutched around that glass of scotch like he’s not sure it’s still there but he  _really_  needs it to be.

He really has never seen a show like this before.

She gives a light shrug of her shoulders to release her arms from the sleeves. Then a delicate sway of the hips, to push the dress down over them. Then she lets it fall to the floor, the sparkling material piling up around her shoes. It makes a gentle tinkling sound, like tinsel falling off a Christmas tree.

She steps out of it. The gift, stepping free of its wrapping of its own accord.

Tip-tap.

Standing tall, she inspects her hands for a little while before looking back at him.

“More?” she asks.

He nods.

She loosens one glove, finger by finger, before using her teeth to drag it off her hand. Thus released, she waggles her fingers, then takes the glove and tosses it toward him.

He catches it.

She loosens the other glove in the same way, but this one she pulls off with her hand, and keeps a hold of it. She steps in close between his knees, which part for her without question. She drapes the glove around his neck, and uses it to help pull him in for the briefest of kisses, before pushing him back down onto the couch.

“More?” she asks.

He nods.


	20. “I want to love you but I don’t know how” - Deacon, MacCready

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “I want to love you but I don’t know how”  
> Characters/Relationship: Deacon, MacCready  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/146205100447/i-want-to-love-you-but-i-dont-know-how  
> Content advice:

**“I want to love you but I don’t know how.”**

If there’s any time to get emotional, it’s not out in the ass-end of nowhere with not enough supplies and no clear cover. This was supposed to be a quick trip out to a settlement to check on the construction of a purifier (and perhaps a little Railroad recon) but, of course, there had been a raider ambush. Now they were holed up in a broken-down old pastry shop with nothing for company but a small grey cat.

Well. The cat was avoiding them. But it was there, at least.

“It’s easy, Mac,” says Deacon. “Just open your heart and do what comes naturally.”

MacCready heaves a large sigh. “What if my heart just doesn’t work like that any more?”

“It’s fine,” says Deacon. “Hearts are like assholes. They recover from trauma.”

“Oh,” says MacCready.

Deacon counts silently under his breath.

One.

Two.

Thre…

“Wait,” says MacCready. “What?”

“You never had Cram-stipation? You, young man, are lucky.” Deacon digs a can of purified out of his pack, and hands it to the sniper. He should never have opened that bottle of scotch, the kid’s gone maudlin already. “The key is to stay hydrated, so drink this.”

“Oh,” says MacCready, taking the can. “I thought… never mind.”

“Don’t think,” says Deacon, patting MacCready’s forehead. “You’ll only hurt yourself.”

MacCready drags himself up onto his elbow. “I may be younger than you, but I’m not stupid.”

Deacon thinks for a moment. The stages of drunkenness normally go argumentative into maudlin into passed-out. Mac seems to be travelling backwards, which means next stage is neverending talking…

“Listen,” says MacCready, falling back onto the bedroll, gesticulating in the air. “You old folk don’t have the monopoly on feelings, you know. We feel just as strongly as you do, if not more because we’ve never felt shi… uh, stuff like this before. So it’s tough, you know, we don’t know how to deal with it, and we feel it so intensely like you probably can’t even remember.”

Yeah. Deacon rolls his eyes, another reason to be grateful for the dark glasses because if Mac saw that he might go right back to argumentative. He lets him talk. And talk. Jeez, he really does have a mouth on him, doesn’t he?

After a little while, the cat pokes a nose around the edge of a counter. He breaks a snack cake into pieces, and tosses a tiny piece to the cat. It darts forward, snatches it up, then disappears behind the counter again.

He tries again. Dart, snatch, hide. But it gets a little closer, and doesn’t hide quite so far away. So he tries again. Before long, the cat is practically in his lap.

Deacon hopes snack cakes aren’t bad for cats. Hell, it had survived in here with only pastries to eat for this long, it’d probably be fine.

“Hey,” says MacCready. “Are you even listening?”

Deacon looks guiltily up at the sniper, his fingers curling behind the cat’s ears. Mac’s not looking, but…

The cat meows, loudly.

Mac gets up again. “What the… Oh.”

“Like a regular Dr Doolittle, right?” says Deacon.

“That’s nice,” says Mac, his head falling onto his arm. “If animals love you, then maybe I can too.”

He starts to snore.

“Yeah,” says Deacon, pulling the cat into his lap. “Uh… sure.”


	21. “Kiss me” - Paladin Danse, Deacon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Kiss me.”  
> Characters/Relationship: Paladin Danse, Deacon  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/146213298767/13-for-danse-and-deacon-ily  
> Content advice:

**“Kiss me.”**

Deacon is sitting over the entry gate of the Castle, kicking the backs of his heels against the walls. Danse is looking up at him, having to squint in the afternoon sun.

“I’m not going to kiss you,” says Danse.

“It’s the toll,” says Deacon. “New rule.”

“No,” says Danse.

“If you want to come in,” says Deacon, “you gotta pay the toll. Pucker up.”

“If I want to come in, I will,” says Danse. “Now stop it. I’ve been back for thirty seconds, and you’re starting already?”

“Starting what?” asks Deacon, with a grin.

“Tormenting me,” says Danse, without one.

“You say that like I ever stopped,” says Deacon, airily. “Don’t think I hold off just because you’re not here. You should hear what I’ve been saying to your power armor.”

Danse’s eyes narrow, and he takes an angry step forward. “If I find out you’ve touched my armor there will be hell to pay.”

“Wow,” says Deacon. “Okay. Kidding.”

One of the Minutemen has obviously taken pity on the big guy, because there’s a loud creak comes up from below and Danse gets a particularly satisfied look on his face.

Deacon gets up, and pads over to the stairs, meeting Danse down in the courtyard. Danse ignores him, naturally, continuing to head toward the workbench that’s the usual staging post for junk collected on the road.

Deacon leans back against the wall beside it, and angles his face into the sun. “How’s the General?”

“She’s well,” says Danse, which is probably characteristic understatement. Judging by the broad smile he doesn’t even bother to cover up, he actually knows her status in a lot more detail. Intimate detail, you might say.

“Get up to anything nice?” asks Deacon.

“Constantly,” says Danse, casually.

Oh. Oh, that’s how it is.

“I missed you,” says Deacon. “You know that?”

“I doubt that,” says Danse, starting to unload his pack. Lots of ammo, a load of silver cutlery, and the requisite typewriter. Seriously, what  _does_  she do with them all?

“Not a word of a lie,” says Deacon.

“You missed having someone to be the butt of your jokes,” says Danse, unpacking a few more items.

“Nah,” says Deacon. “Mac was still here. It’s just that… being here with all these young'uns, having to help them them through their patrols, making sure they don’t fall asleep at their posts. It’s a tough job. Gave me a new appreciation for what you do.”

Danse takes a slightly heavier breath than normal, and closes up his pack. “Thank you,” he says. “Believe it or not, that does mean something to hear you say that.”

“Okay,” says Deacon. “So  _now_  will you kiss me?”

Danse glares at him for a moment, except… wait. That’s not a glare. That’s just a look. In fact, that’s suspiciously close to a smile.

Putting a big hand on one of Deacon’s cheeks, he presses a damp and slightly sweaty kiss onto the other. It crushes Deacon’s glasses against his face. He ends up with them off the side of his nose and with one of the arms in his ear.

Releasing him, Danse pats his cheek, and heads into the Castle.

With his glasses lopsided, and a grin on his face, Deacon watches him go. “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”


	22. “So, I found this waterfall…” - Paladin Danse, Deacon, MacCready

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “So, I found this waterfall…”  
> Characters/Relationship: Paladin Danse, Deacon, MacCready  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/146274825851/if-youre-still-doing-the-prompt-things-could-you  
> Content advice: I don't even know where this came from

**“So, I found this waterfall…”**

The General pinches the bridge of her nose. “No you didn’t, Deacon.”

“Xalrisqqa,” he corrects her. “Please respect my elven heritage.”

“You didn’t find a waterfall,” she says, “because there isn’t one here. I already described the location. It’s a city. The waterfalls, if there are any, are over that way.”

She waves her hands over the opposite side of the map, one she’s drawn on a large sheet of paper. From left to right, she’s drawn assorted triangles for mountains, a sweeping curve of a river, and tiny boxes surrounded by a big wall.

“Okay,” says Deacon/Xalrisqqa. “Mac’s a wizard. Can he transport us to the waterfall?”

“No,” says the General.

“Well that’s not fair,” says Mac. “I’m Pettigrew the Perceptive, I should be able to do that.”

“You can’t,” she says.

“I have a really powerful staff,” says Mac/Pettigrew.

“He does,” says Deacon/Xalrisqqa. “He’s shown it to me. Obviously as an elf I remained aloof and unimpressed, but secretly I really wanted to…”

“It does seem,” says Danse, “that we’ve chosen an arbitrary point at which to enter the map.”

“Don’t you start, Brewbeard,” she says. “This is just where the campaign begins. You know, the one I spent a significant amount of time planning.”

Xalrisqqa, Pettigrew, and Brewbeard all look at her with pleading eyes.

“Oh for… fine.” She picks up the figurines, drawing a ’ _hey be careful with those_ ’ from Mac/Pettigrew, and dumps them on the other side of the map, in the middle of the mountains.

“Okay, so,” she says, racking her brains. “Xalrisqqa finds a waterfall, which is not unusual in, you know, mountainous territory. The water is cool and clear, the rocks grey and cold, and a light overgrowth of greenery hangs down in the edges of the water. There’s an odd noise, too faint to be identified or located. Brewbeard, you’re up.”

Danse/Brewbeard stares at his sheet.

“Danse,” she says. “That’s you.”

“I think we should collect some water,” he says.

“You don’t want to, I don’t know, look around? Investigate the noise?”

“No,” he says. “Without having visited the town, we are likely short on provisions. In an inhospitable environment it’s important to secure a supply of safe drinking water.”

“Psst,” says Deacon/Xalrisqqa. “It’d be more in character for you to ask if it’s ale.”

“Oh,” says Danse/Brewbeard. “Is it ale?”

“No,” says the General. “It is water. And yes it is potable, before you ask.”

“Then I suggest we collect some, for the aforementioned reason.”

“Fine,” she says. “Add five filled waterskins to each of your bags. Don’t forget to increase the weight.”

“Aww come on,” says Mac/Pettigrew. “Why do I have to carry it? He collected it.”

“Yeah,” says Deacon/Xalrisqqa. “My delicate elven bones cannot possibly support such a ponderous weight. I say the dwarf carries it.”

“You’re in it together,” says the General. “Now do as you’re told, oh mighty band of heroes.”

They grumble, but mark their sheets.

“Okay,” she says, when she has their attention again. “Pettigrew the Perceptive. Your turn.”

“Hmm,” says Mac/Pettigrew. “I think I’d like to investigate that noise.”

“Roll for it,” she says.

He does. “Two. Oh.”

“You can’t really make out too much,” says the General. “But there does seem to be a roaring sound, like an animal. Or perhaps a large fire. Maybe both? Who knows. Xalrisqqa. Back to you.”

“I would like,” says Deacon/Xalrisqqa, drawling out the words. “To use my druid-ly powers to… wait no. What’s this? Behind the waterfall? It’s a cave! I wanna go into it.”

“There’s no… ugh.” The General throws her hands in the air. “Fine. Go on in. What do you see?”

“Wow,” says Deacon/Xalrisqqa, holding his hand over his mouth to muffle his words. “There’s a whole alternate reality in here. Everyone is either elves or seriously hot. Or both. Mostly both.”

“I wanna go in,” says Mac/Pettigrew.

“It’s not your turn,” says the General.

“I want to go in,” says Danse/Brewbeard.

The General glares at him, and mouths a word.

_Traitor._

Then she throws her prep sheets over her shoulder, and takes a deep gulp of her drink.

“Alright,” she says. “So what’s this place called?”


	23. “We’re in the middle of a thunderstorm and you want to stop and feel the rain?” - Paladin Danse, Female Sole Survivor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “We’re in the middle of a thunderstorm and you want to stop and feel the rain?”  
> Characters/Relationship: Paladin Danse, Female Sole Survivor  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/146323676460/21-danse-fsole-i-really-enjoy-your-writing-and  
> Content advice: mild angst

**“We’re in the middle of a thunderstorm and you want to stop and feel the rain?”**

Lightning flashes above, any dramatic or dazzling strike hidden by clouds or drifting curtains of rain. The scent of dust has already been washed out of the air, replaced by one of mud and damp, dead grass.

She’s standing in the middle of the road. She stopped dead when the rain began, and now her hair and the shoulders of her uniform are dark. Rainwater is trickling down into his power armor, too, forming icy-cold patches against his skin.

“I used to like it,” she says, looking up at the sky. She stands motionless, except for a flinch when the thunder finally crashes around them.

“You seem to be liking it now,” he says.

The longer they stay out in it, the longer it will take them to dry, further delaying their return to the Prydwen. They’ll be even more late than they already are.

She turns her face up further, the rain hitting hard on her face, droplets of water trickling down her cheeks and beading in her eyelashes.

“I don’t think I like anything any more,” she says, blinking them away. “I don’t think I can.”

“Of course you can,” he says.

“I don’t deserve to,” she says.

The statement is so simple, so matter-of-fact, yet it makes his blood run cold. He’d never wanted to hear that phrase again. Not from another person’s lips.

Somehow he persuades her into shelter, into an old coffee shop. He secures the perimeter, setting mines, while she sits on the floor in the middle of the room, shivering.

Though he’s damp and uncomfortable, he’d prefer to stay inside the armor. It’s his protection against more than just enemies. But she needs more from him right now. He hits the release and steps out. Kneeling beside her, he wraps a blanket around her shoulders.

“I’m a murderer,” she says. Her eyes are bright, and clear.

Not for the first time, he wonders at the wisdom of recruiting her. She had been so full of fire, and what had seemed like a desire to make things right, to make them good. It was inspiring. But that’s not what it was at all. It was vengeance that fuelled her. And now it’s run out, she has nothing left.

He knows exactly how that feels.

“I could have talked to him,” she says. “I could have persuaded him to help me. I didn’t give him the chance.”

Kellogg. That was months ago, he had no idea it was still bothering her. 

But of course it was.

“You couldn’t,” he says. “And he wouldn’t have given you the chance. You have to remember that.”

It happens to every soldier. More than once. You’re convinced that you could make things right, you could have done it differently. Sometimes it’s an enemy you think you could have persuaded of the right of things. Sometimes it’s the friend you think you could have saved. You  _should_  have saved.

He feels the deep ache of grief rising in his chest, and swallows it down before it can take hold.

She shivers again. “I looked into his eyes and watched him burn,” she says. “And do you know what’s worse?”

He shakes his head.

“I’d do it again,” she says.

He can’t tell her he understands. He can’t broach that subject because if he starts talking, he might never stop. So he reaches out and touches his hand to her shoulder. A silent gesture of comfort.

She shakes it off, and shuffles away.

_Idiot_ , he thinks.  _How could you possibly think she’d want comfort from you. It’s just another manifestation of this ridiculous, selfish urge to be near to her._

_And you don’t deserve it._


	24. “Looks like we’ll be trapped for a while…” - John Hancock/Female Sole Survivor (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Looks like we’ll be trapped for a while…”  
> Characters/Relationship: John Hancock/Female Sole Survivor  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/146375103860/if-you-feel-like-doing-a-nsfw-17-with-hancock  
> Content advice: nsfw for sexual context and content. but not as much as in the extended version, [What Goes Up](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7284469). ;)

**“Looks like we’ll be trapped for a while…”**

He’s not sure if that was supposed to sound comforting, but it didn’t. Power outages ain’t that much of a surprise, in the Commonwealth. Wiring gets frayed, or chewed by molerats. Fusion cores do run out, or get stolen by a certain light-fingered Vault-Dweller. You just don’t want it to happen in an elevator. Or when you’re in a Railroad safe house, taking a trip to check on some shady friends. Then it’s 50/50 whether it’s an innocent outage or a sign of an attack.

He listens, carefully. “I don’t hear any shootin’,” he says. “And the elevator ain’t shakin’ in its tracks.”

“Yet,” she says.

Now, he could take that two ways. There’s the ‘oh shit we’re gonna die’ kinda way, or the ‘let’s make this place shake’ kinda way.

He prefers the latter, but seems like she might be meaning the former.

“Fuck,” she says. “I hate elevators. Oh god. Help me, John. Distract me. Anything.”

Okay. Step one. He pulls out his jet inhaler and shakes it. She knows the sound. She grabs his hand, inhales deep. 

“Okay,” she says, exhaling slow. “That’s better.”

He sucks in a lungful himself, savoring that first burst of calm in his head.

“Alright,” he says. “Now let’s see about that distraction.”

She moves up close, her breath warm on his neck. The jet still strong, humming in his veins, it’s with infinite slowness that she trails her hand down his chest, over his stomach, and starts toying with the scarf he’s using for a belt.

“Naw,” he says, catching her hand. “This is for  _you_.”

He spins her round, slow-motion, like an elegant little dance that ends up with her pressed against the mirrored panels of the elevator wall. His thigh’s between hers, the fabric of her pants rough against his. Shame she’s not wearing one of her pretty dresses, or he could just pull it up and fuck her into the wall. But you can’t dress everyday for the unlikely possibility of being trapped in an elevator with the most charming ghoul in the Commonwealth, so pants it is.

He feels his way down to her waist, unbuckles her belt, pops open the buttons of her pants with slow but nimble fingers. She sighs, brushes her hip up against his crotch, which is nice and all but very distracting. He loosens her pants, pulls them down a bit to give a little leeway. He can’t just pull ‘em off her, cos the elevator could start moving at any moment and then where would they be, except for half-naked and giggling like idiots in front of a group of horrified synths. This place is supposed to be a safe house, after all. Don’t want to expose the poor innocent fools to chem-fuelled ghoul-fucking this soon out of the Institute.

Well. It does have a certain appeal.

He slides his hand into her pants, over her panties for the moment, just to test her out. Those panties are damp, and hot, and she lets out the cutest little sigh as his fingers brush over her.

“Hold on,” she says, her voice low and husky.

He lets her go. Reluctant, like.

There’s a couple of clicks and an odd metallic sound, then a bright light shines out of the Pip-Boy that’s usually on her arm but is now just lying in her hands. She kneels down to place it over the other side of the elevator, angling it so it lights the space without blinding them. She resumes her position next to him, pressed against the mirrored wall. Behind her, around them, a thousand copies of the pair of them reflect against each other and off into the distance.

She’s watching herself in those reflections. Watching him. And the look of sheer want on her face, directed at  _him_ , makes his heart about want to burst.

That and his pants, too.

“Well, sunshine,” he says. “Are you ready for your distraction now?”


	25. “I’m pregnant” - Paladin Danse, Deacon, MacCready

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “I’m pregnant.”  
> Characters/Relationship: Paladin Danse, Deacon, MacCready  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/146414459025/27-danse-maccready-deacon  
> Content advice:

**“I’m pregnant.”**

Mac’s lying on his back on the floor, holding his stomach and groaning.

“You’re not pregnant, Mac,” says Deacon. “You just ate too much Cram. Didn’t I warn you about that just a few days ago?”

MacCready groans a little more.

“C'mon,” says Deacon. “Quit whining. You brought this on yourself.”

A set of heavy footsteps approaches, adding to the localized din. The light levels in the room go down as a large shape comes to loom in the doorway. Danse. He looks curiously at the scene in front of him, which must be pretty damn curious if he’s interested.

“Is everything alright in here?” he asks.

“Mac’s pregnant,” says Deacon.

Danse frowns. “I find that somewhat unlikely,” he says.

“It’s true,” says Mac. “And it hurts.”

The big guy doesn’t move. “I was aware that the state of sex education in the Commonwealth was poor, but…”

“I’m from the same place as you,” groans MacCready. “And I probably know more about it than you do.”

Danse remains motionless. But even he can’t resist that kind of bait.

“I find that extremely unlikely,” he says.

“Guuuuhhhhh,” says Mac. “Are you gonna help or not?”

You might think that Danse is about to nope right out of the conversation, but if you look closely? You might see something pass across his face, a tiny change of expression that would be unnoticeable behind a pair of sunglasses so it’s a good job he values his visual acuity so much. He comes into the room, kneels beside the stricken sniper, and checks his pulse. Then he clears his throat.

“As a child, were you ever exposed to radiation for an extended period of time?”

Mac snorts. “Only all of it. C'mon, how is that supposed to help?”

Danse puts his hand on Mac’s stomach. Mac groans, extra-dramatic, and slaps the hand away.

Danse sighs. “Have you ever had or come in contact with a person confirmed to be carrying a communicable disease?”

“Probably everyone,” says Mac. “I don’t know, it’s not the kind of thing you ask.”

Danse nods, sagely. Then he turns those deep brown eyes on Mac’s baby blues, and asks the million cap question.

“Have you ever had sexual relations with any species considered non-human?”

“No,” says Mac, indignantly.

“You sure about that, Mac?” says Deacon.

“Of course I’m… ugghhh… sure,” he says, trying to sit up.

Danse puts a big hand on Mac’s shoulder, and continues looking him right in the eyes. His brow is furrowed, his tone dark and serious as he asks: 

“What about the aliens?”

Mac looks blankly up at him. “What?”

“After the poker game,” says Danse. “When you lost your hat to the aliens.”

“I didn’t…” Mac’s voice trails away. Mac probably doesn’t remember all that much from that night.

“Yeah, Mac,” says Deacon. “What did happen? More to the point, what did you have to do to get the hat back?”

“I… what??” Mac sputters. “C’mon, guys, this isn’t helping!”

Danse’s straight face game is pretty strong, but it can’t stand up to this sort of punishment. A slow smile spreads wide across his face.

“I hate you,” says Mac, when he notices it. “Both of you. I hope you know that.”


	26. “Wanna bet?” - Paladin Danse, John Hancock, Female Sole Survivor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Wanna bet?”  
> Characters/Relationship: Paladin Danse, John Hancock, Female Sole Survivor  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/146459885921/hello-again-fascinated-by-your-promts-its  
> Content advice:

**“Wanna bet?”**

She holds the mutfruit in her hand, and raises her eyebrow. It’s not your usual kind of mutfruit; this is a smaller variety, developed by the settlers down at Warwick Homestead. Instead of one large fruit, there are two smaller ones hanging at the end of stems that are somehow joined at the top. A very odd-looking thing, in Danse’s opinion, but the taste is not entirely unpleasant. Not entirely pleasant, either. 

“You know I can’t resist a challenge like that,” says Hancock, with a grin.

Danse resists the urge to shake his head in disappointment. The ghoul is deliberately appealing to the General’s matching inability to resist a challenge, and Danse knows how that’s likely to end up; with someone red-faced and embarrassed.

This time, hopefully, it won’t be him.

“Okay,” she says. “If I do it, I get your hat.”

“And if you don’t?” asks Hancock.

“Irrelevant,” she says, cheerily. “Because I will. But I guess you can come up with some kind of forfeit.”

“I better get thinkin’, then,” says Hancock.

Humming to herself, obviously confident, she separates the two fruits. She keeps one for herself, and holds the other out to Danse.

“No,” he says. “I want no part of this.”

She shrugs, and hands it to Hancock instead.

Hancock matches her shrug, and takes it. “How hard can it be?”

Hancock removes the fruit from the stem and leaves it on the table. But she dangles the fruit in the air over her head, tipping her face up toward it. Closing her lips over the fruit, she pulls it free, and rolls it in her mouth with a lascivious wink.

“Cool it, sister,” says Hancock, with a low chuckle. “I’m still here, ya know.”

Her eyes glitter as she removes the stone from her mouth, dropping it on the table. Then she holds up the stem in front of Danse’s eyes.

“Independent verification,” she says, “that I have not altered this stem in any way.”

He drags his eyes away from her face to look at the stem. It’s just a bit of a plant. Who knows what kind of grime or pollutants it might contain. But there’s no stopping her now.

He nods.

She puts it in her mouth. She tilts her head from one side to the other, her face contorting in a variety of strange expressions. After a few moments, she laughs, and covers her mouth. “These are tougher than cherry stems ever were,” she says, from behind her hand.

Meanwhile, Hancock is just shaking his head and looking confused. And Danse, well. Danse is just trying to ignore the foot that’s stroking up the side of his leg.

After half a minute or so, she taps on the table, and holds up her hand. She checks that they’re both looking, then opens her mouth and sticks out her tongue. On it lies the mutfruit stem, with a tight knot tied in the middle of it.

Hancock spits out part of his stem, holding one end of it between his teeth. He pulls out a fliplighter and pretends to light it. “Well, well,” he says. “Whaddya know. What else can you do with that tongue of yours… oh… wait, don’t answer that. You’ll make me blush as much as your man Danse here is.”

“I’m not blushing.” says Danse.

He is.

_Damn it._


	27. “Looks like we’ll be trapped for a while…” - Piper Wright, Male Sole Survivor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Looks like we’ll be trapped for a while…”  
> Characters/Relationship: Piper Wright, Male Sole Survivor  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/146513168761/could-you-do-17-with-piper-and-a-male-sole  
> Content advice:

**“Looks like we’ll be trapped for a while…”**

“Yeah,” says Piper. “Sure does look like that, doesn’t it.”

She reaches out a hand and touches the bars of the cell. They reach from the ground almost all the way up to the ceiling. She tests one. It rattles, sure, and it’s not sunk into the concrete floor, but it’s attached pretty firmly to the one next to it, and the next one, and, well, all of them.

“C'mon Pipes,” he says, sitting heavily on the bench. “It’s not the first time you’ve ended up in Diamond City jail, you told me yourself.”

She grits her teeth. Two syllables in her name and he can’t even be bothered to pronounce one of them. “Why’d you have to punch him, huh, Blue?” she asks, and she’s pleased to note a narrowing of his eyes. He hates when she calls him that.

“I never did like doctors,” he says, with a shrug.

“Doc Crocker is highly respected in Diamond City,” she says. “You can’t just walk into the Dugout and punch him because of some weird phobia.”

“He looked at me funny,” he says.

Piper throws up her hands in irritation. “He looks at everyone like that. And you can’t just attack people because they look weird.”

He grins. “You tell that to everyone who’s taken a swing at me over the last few months.”

She’d tell him he doesn’t look weird, he looks perfectly normal. But it’d only go to his head.

“What’s the problem, anyway, Pipes?” he asks. “Nice quality time together.”

She crosses the cell and stands in front of him, hands on her hips.

“What’s the problem, Blue?” she asks. “You’re asking me what the problem is, Blue? Oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that the Mayor is already trying to get me thrown out of the city? Not just me, but Nat? And now she’s out there on her own while I’m in here?”

He meets her eyes for a moment, then lets them drop.

“Fair point,” he says. “Okay. Stand back.”

“Oh no,” she says. “No no. I don’t know what you’re thinking of doing, but don’t.”

“Shh, Pipes,” he says. “It’ll be fine.”

From his pocket, he retrieves a pair of dark-rimmed glasses. One of the lenses has a deep scratch through it, and both of them are fogged with age, but somehow they do make him look smarter. More trustworthy.

“‘Scuse me,” he says, beckoning over a guard. “Hi. So my friend here is entirely innocent. I don’t know if you saw…”

“Nope,” says the guard.

“Nope what?” he says.

“Nope,” says the guard. “I been warned about you. Don’t listen to anything he says, they say, specially not if he’s wearin’ glasses.”

The guard wanders back over to her post, sitting down with a groan.

“Well shit,” he says, under his breath. He takes off the glasses, and inspects them. “I guess we’re on to plan B.”

“Can’t wait to see it,” says Piper, arms folded.

“'Scuse me,” he says, beckoning the guard over again. “I don’t suppose you have a screwdriver, do you?”

The guard gives him a suspicious look. “What for?”

He holds up the glasses. “Arm’s coming loose. So I need a real small one.”

The guard looks around. “Well… I shouldn’t…”

“I can’t see a thing without them,” he says. “C'mon, help a half-blind guy out.”

“Fine, fine,” says the guard, hefting herself up and heading for the door. “If it’ll shut you up.”

Once she’s gone, he slips the glasses back in his pocket and kneels down. From his boot, he extracts a small screwdriver and a couple of bobby pins.

“Nice,” says Piper. “This way they think you don’t have one. Lucky they didn’t decide on a strip search.”

He grins, then cracks open the lock and holds the door open for her. “Hang by the entrance,” he says. “I’ll distract the guard while you slip out. And take these, just in case I do get stripped.”

“What about you?” asks Piper, tucking the items into her own boot.

“I’ll be fine,” he says, clicking the lock shut again. “Nice to get a bit of peace and quiet for once. Oh, and Pipes?”

She turns back.

“Sorry,” he says.

“It’s okay, Blue,” she says. “Just, you know. Cool it a bit?”

“For you?” he says. “Anything.”


	28. “Wait a minute. Are you jealous?” - Arthur Maxson, Female Sole Survivor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Wait a minute. Are you jealous?”  
> Characters/Relationship: Arthur Maxson, Female Sole Survivor  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/146525505215/i-absolutely-love-the-way-you-write-maxson-do-you  
> Content advice: angst

**“Wait a minute. Are you jealous?”**

His face is so steady, she could well believe he hadn’t even heard her. His brow is furrowed, the frown lines already hard-etched in his skin. The dark circles under his eyes tell of long nights spent awake, the broken vessels in his eyes the alcohol or whatever the fuck he has to use to keep him that way.

Looking at him, it’s hard to believe he’s five years younger than her.

She hates to think how she must look by now.

“Of course not,” he says, the tone of his voice just as dismissive as it’s ever been. His lip curls, just for a fraction of a second, but even that slight movement feels like a fist right to her gut.

Before she can react, he turns away, toward the windows, looking out onto the sea. Trying to pretend that she’s not there, perhaps. Trying to blot her out. He’s spent the last six weeks trying to do it. Farming her off to the Proctors, to Kells. She’d tried to reach out to him, once, only to end up on her ass on the shower room floor.

So maybe it’s the vodka. Or maybe she’s just had enough, but she reaches out again. She grabs his arm but she can’t get a good hold of it, his coat is too thick and her hand too weak. But he does feel the touch through the leather and turns back toward her.

“Alright,” she says. “I did see him. I wanted to make sure he was alright.”

In the face of his glare, her grip on his arm falters. She braces herself, waiting for the outburst, but none comes.

There’s nobody around, but it’s still a surprise to hear his next words.

“Is he?” he asks.

“No,” she says.

It’s the truth. It might be nice to think that he’d been taken in by the open arms of her settlement, but it’s not true. She’d found him unshaved, unwashed, sat in a remote corner of the place staring at a book. Not reading it. She’d watched him for a good few minutes before approaching. He hadn’t turned a single page.

And what was in his eyes, when he looked up? It certainly wasn’t a welcome, and she knew exactly why. She reminded him of it all, just by existing. And she could hardly blame him. Suddenly faced by the one who had brought it all on him in the first place.

And now she’s faced by the one who’d forced her hand. His eyes bore into hers, hard as ever. Just as hard, but not as bright as they used to be. Not by half, but not washed-out; that’s too delicate a term for him. Tarnished, like old silver.

He’s not old. Not at all. But the look in his eyes, that is.

He  _is_ jealous.

After everything he’s said, everything he’s done, he has that audacity?

“This briefing is over,” he says, and he couldn’t be clearer if he tried.

_Fuck off._

She’s never taken kindly to that kind of talk.

“No, it’s not,” she says.

Don’t ask a question if you don’t want the answer.

She looks away, finally, but only to find her pack. From it, she pulls her report, painstakingly typed out on two dozen sheets of yellowed, aged paper. It took her hours, not even counting the failed attempts that stopped after half a page. Not counting the pages discarded, ruined by tears.

You roll into the Commonwealth at the head of a fucking army? You accept the consequences.

All of them.


	29. “Hey! I was gonna eat that!” - Piper Wright, Male Sole Survivor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Hey! I was gonna eat that!”  
> Characters/Relationship: Piper Wright, Male Sole Survivor  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/146564356467/for-the-prompt-39-msosu-and-piper  
> Content advice: meat! meat! meat! and more meat!

**“Hey! I was gonna eat that!”**

He half-heartedly reaches up to the plate she’s holding away from him.

“Blue,” she says. “Look at it. It’s still dripping.”

“Exactly,” he says. “That’s how you know it’ll be delicious.”

“That’s how you know it’ll kill you,” she says. “Or you’ll end up dripping, and I think you know what I mean by that.”

When Nat was younger, she’d gone through a picky phase. She turned her nose up at everything, screamed, cried, the whole lot. One of the only things that would make her eat at all was for Piper to pretend to eat whatever it was herself. She’d pick up Nat’s plate, pretend to dig a fork into it, and make appreciative noises. Then a tiny hand would reach up and the battle would be over until the next meal.

Remembering that, she realises she’s done exactly the wrong thing. Take something away, he’ll only want it more.

Certainly is strange how so many of the lessons she’d learned looking after a kid come back to her when she’s trying to deal with a grown man.

He reaches up again. “C'mon,” he says. “It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

“Yeah, well,” she says. “I know thinking of consequences isn’t exactly your strong suit, but this has implications for everyone in Diamond City.”

Mostly me, she thinks. You’re in my damn house.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he says, “but there’s no need to worry.” He pats his stomach. “I am strong, like bull. Or brahmin, I guess.”

“Uh-huh?” she says.

“Uh-huh,” he says. “C'mon, give it back, it’s getting cold.”

“It barely got warm to start with,” she says.

“I know,” he says, a whining tone entering his voice. “That’s why time is of the essence.”

“Jeez,” she says. “You’re starting to sound just like MacCready.”

“That is… I…” he says, frowning. “For his sake, I’m going to take that as a compliment. Now give it back.”

She keeps it away for a moment longer, but his face and voice are starting to harden. He’s not going to back down.

“Fine,” she says, “it’s your funeral,” and puts the plate back down.

“It’s not,” he says, squaring the plate in front of him. “But just in case it is, make sure there are lots of flowers. Hubflowers. It’ll remind people of my eyes.”

She watches in morbid fascination as he hacks a corner off the steak. Even more pink juices ooze out onto the plate, soaking into the soggy pile of mashed tatos he’d slopped on there. He stabs the morsel with his fork. Piper holds her breath as he lifts it to his mouth and closes his lips around it. A second later, he removes it, and gives it a hard look.

“A,” he says, his gaze switching over to her, “staring at someone while they’re eating is generally considered rude.”

Piper sits back, and folds her arms. “I’m preparing the eye-witness account,” she says.

“B,” he says, “it’s cold.”

She feels a slight pang of guilt. But she pushes it away, as it sounds like there’s another letter coming.

He heaves a sigh. “And C, it is kinda disgusting. Okay, you win. Let’s char this bad boy.”


	30. “The paint’s supposed to go where?” - Deacon, Proctor Ingram

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “The paint’s supposed to go where?”  
> Characters/Relationship: Deacon, Proctor Ingram  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/146615241515/if-ur-still-taking-requests-how-about-19-with  
> Content advice: Deeks bein' Deeks
> 
> This fic also appears in [the Deaconomicon](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8317723/chapters/19048165).

**“The paint’s supposed to go where?”**

Proctor Ingram was - still is - a very patient woman. But after a few months in the Commonwealth, maintaining every system on the Prydwen as well as dealing with whatever equipment the crew had managed to trash on their latest ground missions, her nerves may have been getting a little raw.

“Maybe if you took those sunglasses off, you’d be able to see where you were putting it,” she said.

“Can’t,” said the Initiate, with a dazzling grin that almost certainly melted her heart. Well, maybe. A little bit. “Explosion, bright, retinopathy. You know.”

“Huh,” she said. “Is that so?”

“Yup,” said the Initiate.

She folded her giant metal arms. Funny how many of these guys still do that, even in a set of power armor. “See, when it comes to eye injuries,” she said, “Cade normally signs people off. Especially if they work with things they, you know, need to see.”

“Oh, I insisted,” said the Initiate. “A little bit of blindness can’t keep me away from my Brotherhood-ly duties.”

“Right,” she said, slowly. “Well, just touch up the existing paintwork, and don’t forget the rank on the arm. God forbid we forget ranks and responsibilities.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” said the Initiate. “I mean, Proctor.”

She frowned, and returned to her own task, hammering out the dents in another damaged chunk of power armor.

The Initiate turned his attention back to the suit. It had been through a hell of a time. Scorched, battered, and particularly pungent. The eye-watering vapors from the paint weren’t much better, so to keep himself cheerful he whistled as he worked. And he did like to make a cheery and friendly atmosphere for the rest of the crew, as well.

“Will you stop that?” said the Proctor.

Rude.

“All done,” said the Initiate after a little while.

“Good,” said the Proctor. “I’m sure he’ll be along to collect it shortly. In the meantime, maybe you want to go rest those eyes of yours after so much close work?”

“Nah, I’m good,” said the Initiate. “Who’s next?”

She gave him a hard stare, but pointed him at another suit. “Same job there,” she said. “Clean it up a bit, and retouch the paintwork.”

Before he could, in walked a tall figure. He was clad in the usual orange, fireproof, and most importantly,  _clingy_  Brotherhood flight suit.

“Paladin Danse,” said Ingram, with a broad smile. “Good to see you.”

The Initiate pulled a neat little salute. Ranks and responsibilities, very important in the old Brotherhood.

The Paladin nodded politely. “Is my armor ready?” he asked.

“Sure is,” said the Initiate. “All touched up and ready to go.”

“Outstanding,” said the Paladin. He climbed into his suit, with the usual sshhhwwooopp and scchtttummkk (those are the technical terms), and headed out toward the mess hall.

As he went, the Proctor watched him. As she watched him, her brow furrowed.

“Hold on,” said the Proctor.

“Is there a problem?” said the Paladin, stopping dead.

Her eyes drifted down over the back of his suit. “No,” she said. “Just a final check.”

The Initiate and the Proctor watched him go, paintbrush and hammer in hand, respectively. Then the Proctor cleared her throat. “I red heart Elder Maxson?” she asked, quietly.

‘It’s true, isn’t it?“ said the Initiate, with a grin, and made to return to the other suit.

He was stopped by a heavy metal hand landing on his shoulder.

“I don’t know who you are,” said the Proctor, as the first howls of laughter started to echo down the Prydwen. “I’m sure you wouldn’t tell me, even if I asked. But I suggest you make yourself scarce. Now.”

And that, friends, is the story of how I narrowly avoided getting thrown off the Prydwen for the  _third_  time.


	31. “Teach me how to play?” - Paladin Danse, Female Sole Survivor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Teach me how to play?”  
> Characters/Relationship: Paladin Danse, Female Sole Survivor  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/146626217965/airagitt-this-is-for-you-number-10-danse  
> Content advice:

**“Teach me how to play?”**

The General looked at him with an expression of wide-eyed innocence.

In hindsight, that should have been a clue.

She settled herself down at the table opposite him, next to Haylen. She seemed confused even by the cards.

“It’s a standard pre-war set,” said Haylen, kindly, not that she ever spoke unkindly. “Missing a few from the hearts suit, I think, but we normally do okay without them.”

“Damnit Haylen,” said Rhys. “Why not just show her your cards already?”

The General smiled at him, a brilliant smile. “I may be a beginner,” she said, “but I’m pretty sure that’s not how the game works.”

Rhys stared her down. Or at least, he tried to. Danse already knew that the General didn’t take kindly to intimidation. Rhys had experienced it first hand not so long before, only saved from a bloody nose by Danse’s own intervention. But there he was, trying it again.

Well, thought Danse. On his own head be it.

The General won the first hand.

“Beginner’s luck,” she said, beaming.

“Yeah,” said Rhys, tossing his caps over to her. “Whatever.”

The General won the second hand. And the third. And the fourth. Before long, the pile of caps in front of her was significantly larger than anyone else’s. Beginner’s luck, they laughed, and nobody thought to question it. The conversation was lively, beer and whiskey were flowing freely, and even the Knights on duty were making excuses to come in and watch the game. It was, for want of a better word, fun.

After a while Haylen sighed deeply. “I’m nearly out,” she said.

“Well I’m not done,” said Rhys. “I’m going to pull this back.”

“Rhys,” said Danse. “Be sensible.”

“You can talk,” said Rhys. “What’re you going to bet, your hood?”

Across the table, Haylen and the General’s mouths had both formed into silent ‘o’s.

Danse looked down at his pile of caps. Or he would have, had there been any left. At that point, he should have withdrawn from the game. A sensible man would have.

But then the General smiled at him.

It was his duty, he told himself. These were his men (and women). It would have been a dereliction of duty to abandon the game before the end.

“Alright,” he said.

The General won the hand.

He unbuckled his hood from under his chin, and pulled it off his head. Feeling suddenly self-conscious about the probably unruly state of his hair, he ran his fingers through it before anyone could see.

Three pairs of eyes stared at a point just above his head.

“Well,” said the General. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“What were you expecting,” asked Haylen, trying to be quiet but not quite managing.

The General turned to speak to Haylen, her eyes never leaving him. “I have no idea,” she said. “Just not… that. Is it me or does it look really… springy?”

“Alright,” said Rhys, sounding a little petulant. “I’m done.”

“One more hand,” said the General, still staring.

“Oh,” said Rhys. “Okay. Well, what are we going to bet now? Clothes?”

In hindsight, that suggestion came out a little too easily. Luckily, the General had a better idea.

Or at least, a different one.

“Winner gets to run their fingers through the Paladin’s hair,” she said. “Or,” and there she shrugged and averted her eyes, “whoever’s they choose.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, but she refused to meet them. Haylen and Rhys both shrugged and agreed, and he found himself nodding along.

Haylen and Rhys then immediately folded.

Just him and the General.

He looked at the cards in his hand. Once again, there was nothing there. He couldn’t remember a night of such bad luck. But maybe he could bluff her. She was distracted, after all, so if he could just convince…

“I got nothing,” she said, and tossed her cards into the center of the table.

It took a moment to register. When he looked up, her expression was unreadable.

“Really?” he asked.

“Yep,” she said. “You win.”

He frowned, still glancing down at the terrible hand of cards. Slowly, cautiously, he placed them on the table.

She sat back in her seat, shook out her hair, and folded her arms.

“So,” she said, with a half-smile. “Who are you going to pick?”


	32. “I think I’m in love with you and I’m terrified” - Paladin Danse, Deacon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “I think I’m in love with you and I’m terrified.”  
> Characters/Relationship: Paladin Danse, Deacon  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/146665718177/please-32-for-danse-and-deacon-i-am-loving-both  
> Content advice: mild angst. Deeks in disguise.

**“I think I’m in love with you and I’m terrified.”**

Danse’s chair scrapes on the ground as he shuffles it closer to the bar. He turns his beer in his hands, wiping the condensation off on his pants.

“I can’t say that,” he says.

“It’s true, though,” says Deacon. “Isn’t it?”

Especially the terrified bit, that’s obvious. But Deacon doesn’t say that out loud. He knows how it feels, to want someone so badly, to want to give them absolutely everything but you’re an asshole, so you know that even if you do? Even in the remote chance that they feel the same way? You’re just going to fuck it up, so there’s no point.

Danse heaves a heavy sigh, which is about all you can do with lungs like his. “I don’t know,” he says.

It’s not the first time Deacon’s posed as a barman, it gives good access to people. You hear things, you see things. It suits him, really. Anyone can polish a glass, after all, anyone can pour a beer. He’s got a pretty good line in philosophical banter and relationship advice is easy. Tell them or walk away. Done.

Danse is stuck on that dilemma. Tell or walk away. He can’t walk away by the sounds of things, not without affecting his career, which is about all that matters to him. He can’t say anything because he’s too scared. Looks like he’s headed for secret option three.

“Or you could just bottle it up for the rest of your life,” says Deacon. “But that shit’s not healthy.”

“If I say something, that’s it,” says Danse. “I can’t take it back.”

“True,” says Deacon. “But it’s already too late. Once you’ve decided you can’t say it, that means you wanted to say it. And if you want to say it, you’ve basically said it to yourself, and you really can’t unsay that.”

Danse’s brow furrows.

It is the first time Deacon’s seen the Paladin outside of his flight suit. He hardly recognised him when he walked in and sat down at the bar. He just looked like any other Commonwealth citizen looking to drown their sorrows. It didn’t take him long to work out why he was here. The Brotherhood probably don’t have their own agony aunt. It’s not like he’s got any friends. If you can’t trust anyone you know and you really need to talk, what do you do?

Go find a stranger with a willing ear.

“Another?” says Deacon, and when the Paladin nods he cracks open a fresh beer for him, sweeping the offered caps into the cashbox below the counter. He’d had to break into it to deposit the cash, but he’d already left a little note and a few extra bits and pieces, just in case he had to leave in a hurry.

He probably shouldn’t have hung around beyond opening that first beer for him, but he didn’t think the guy would actually talk.

How’s your day going, alright ( _lie_ ). You a trader, no ( _truth_ ), a soldier ( _evasion_ ). Off duty I hope, yes ( _truth_ ). You seem pretty down, nod ( _obvious_ ). Relationship trouble?

Then Danse had fixed him with a pair of brown eyes that looked just like the boss’s and Deacon had understood.

But now he’s trapped. So not only does every word of his advice to Danse apply to himself, but it’s all about the same person.

God fucking damnit.


	33. “You wanted to see me?” - Arthur Maxson, Male Sole Survivor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “You wanted to see me?”  
> Characters/Relationship: Arthur Maxson, Male Sole Survivor  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/146681469275/you-wanted-to-see-me-maxson-stands-in-the  
> Content advice: Wildcard chapter.

**“You wanted to see me?”**

Maxson stands in the observation deck of the Prydwen, his hands clasped behind his back. Before him lies the Commonwealth, containing the thousands of lives that have been saved by the actions of the Brotherhood of Steel. Around him, the Prydwen itself, containing the brave souls that had saved them. And behind him, in the same room, his Sentinel, without whom the whole venture might have been a disastrous loss.

The Sentinel is lounging against one of the tables in the room, his arms folded across his chest. While doing so, he nudges a bottle of whiskey with his elbow, almost knocking it onto the floor. With typically quick reactions, he catches it, holds it in his hand, and regards the label with a critical eye.

“Pff,” he says. “Scotch shite,” and places it back from where it fell.

“Sentinel,” says Maxson.

“Elder,” says the Sentinel.

“A few days ago,” says Maxson, in response to the original question, “a Brotherhood patrol was in the location of the Robotics Pioneer Park.”

He pauses, there, to see if there is a reaction.

It takes a moment.

“What of it?” says the Sentinel, studiously disinterested.

“The leader of the patrol submitted a report,” says Maxson. “It mentions the appearance of a deathclaw, of the glowing variety, four protectron units, and an individual clad only in a green loincloth and a pair of gloves.”

The Sentinel’s expression remains unchanged.

“Curiously,” continues Maxson, keeping a sharp eye on him, “this individual closely matches your description.”

The Sentinel’s face may not be moving, but his lips are pressed tight together. He also appears to be biting the inside of his lip. He still doesn’t speak, though.

Maxson steps over to the table closest to him, and picks up the folder that lies on it. He flips through the pages, runs his finger down the text; not that he needs to. He’ll probably never be able to forget it.

“According to the report,” says Maxson, forcing his brow into a frown, “said individual shouted ‘I am Grognak, Sentinel of the Brotherhood of Steel’.”

The Sentinel shrugs, and finally breaks his silence. “There are impersonators everywhere, these days,” he says. “Just ask Preston.”

“The Knight reports,” continues Maxson, “that the individual demanded the deathclaw kneel before him, or 'face the consequences of steel’. The individual then proceeded to shout to his companion, 'come on, Shroud, let’s fucking end this glowing piece of shite’.”

The Sentinel coughs, politely covering his mouth when he does so. “Sounds like a right arsehole,” he says, with some effort.

“The report continues,” says Maxson. “It is highly complimentary of the combat skills of the individual, armed as they were with only a costume-department battleaxe. But, as you weren’t involved, I won’t bore you with the details.”

He closes the folder and waits. A count of three should do it.

_One._  
Two.  
Thr…

“Really?” asks the Sentinel. “Let me see that.”

Maxson turns away, pretending to read the file, but mostly trying to hide the smile on his face.

“Sounds like someone worth recruiting, is all,” says the Sentinel, casually.

“Indeed,” says Maxson. “I imagine they’d be quite the asset, if they could be persuaded to wear a uniform.”

There’s a slight pause. He hands the file to the Sentinel, looking him right in the eye as he does.

“Is that all?” says the Sentinel, with a slight catch in his voice.

“Yes,” says Maxson, with a similar catch in his. “Dismissed.”


	34. “Come over here and make me” - Paladin Danse, Male Sole Survivor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Come over here and make me.”  
> Characters/Relationship: Paladin Danse, Male Sole Survivor  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/146715079440/number-one-for-aggressive-mss-and-danse  
> Content advice: violence and aggression

**“Come over here and make me.”**

The Knight stands with his arms folded, a look of utter disrespect on his face.

It was a simple request.  _Shape up_. Danse had caught him stealing whiskey from a vendor in one of the Knight’s own settlements. At the time he’d protested that it was his settlement, he could do what he wanted, and Danse had had to drop it. But now they’re on Brotherhood soil. He is the commanding officer. When he says jump, the Knight says how high.

At least, that’s how it’s supposed to be.

“I don’t know if this was considered acceptable behavior,” says Danse, “in whatever excuse for a military you belonged to before the war, but it’s not acceptable here. Not within the Brotherhood. Not in the Commonwealth.”

“What’s the matter, Danse?” says the Knight. “You scared?”

The way the Knight spits out his name makes it sound like a curse. Like an insult. And it’s the only fucking name he’s got, so he sees red. He grabs him by the collar and slams him against the lockers. “Does it look like it?” he asks.

Up close, he can smell the stale cigarette smoke on the Knight’s breath, the sour tang of alcohol. So he’s been drinking his misappropriated goods, too, at whatever godforsaken hour of the morning this is. Out-fucking-standing.

The Knight pushes him away with both hands, and cracks his neck. “That’s your answer, is it?” he says. “Violence? Come on then. Show me what you got.”

“Stop pushing me, Knight,” he says. “I’m warning you.”

But the Knight doesn’t listen. Too caught up in whatever angry thoughts are running through that mind of his. The alcohol might have made him slow, but the rising fist is fast and unexpected enough that Danse can only deflect it. The next fist is much the same. While the Knight is off-balance, he pushes him away, one-handed, but hard enough that he hits on the lockers again.

“Stop this,” says Danse. “Right now.”

But the Knight still comes, and he still spits out his name. A blow glances off his nose, there’s a burst of pain within it and Danse realises he has no choice.

Neutralise the target by any means.

His own fist connects with the Knight’s cheek, right next to his nose. His head snaps sideways, blood spattering out over the lockers. He staggers back, dazed, but the fight’s still in him.

“I’ll fucking kill you,” he says, pushing away from the lockers. But now he really is off-balance, and his rush is easily side-stepped. 

Danse grabs the Knight’s arm, and twists it behind him. The Knight carries on cursing him, threatening him, not that he’s in any position to follow up on those threats. Danse would clap a hand over his mouth to shut him up if he didn’t have to open doors to get through to the main part of the station.

“What the… oh my God,” says Haylen, pushing her chair away from her terminal.

“Get a holding cell open,” snaps Danse.

“Does he need medical…”

“No he does not,” says Danse. “Now do it.”

She blanches, and rushes ahead of him to find the keys and open the door. She steps back, nervous, and he’s already regretting the harsh way he spoke to her. It’s not her fault. It’s not even the Knight’s fault. He could have handled this better.

He  _should_ have.

He pushes the Knight inside the cell, and slams the door closed behind him. Locking it, he holds his palm to his temple. The pain behind it is growing, and nausea rising in his stomach to match it.

Cold light filters in through the high, sealed window. The Knight sits heavily on the bench, and drops his head back against the wall. Blood is still dribbling from his nose, soaking into the neck of his flight suit.

Danse has been here before.

Knight Rhys had been brought back from the brink, but only just. It had taken every ounce of patience that Danse had, every scrap of self-control not to react with violence.

And with this Knight he’s already failed.


	35. “You fainted… straight into my arms" - Deacon, Desdemona

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “You fainted… straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such extremes.” and “Hey, I’m with you, okay? Always.”  
> Characters/Relationship: Deacon, Desdemona  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/146763394166/desdemona-and-deacon-i-cant-decide-between-14  
> Content advice: heavy angst and spoilers

**“You fainted… straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”**

Dez’s eyes are open wide, staring. Her lips are paler than ever, and strands of her hair are sticking in the cold sweat on her brow. He brushes them aside, but that only leaves smudges of blood to mar her skin instead. 

What happened, she’d asked. He’d almost laughed. He didn’t have the guts to tell her what really happened. If she doesn’t know… well. It’s probably better that way.

“Your attention?” she says. “Hardly.”

She’s joking, which is normally a good sign, but the color’s draining from her face as fast as the blood’s draining from her chest. It’s soaking through his jeans, and that’s a sticky, warm sensation he hoped he’d never have to feel again.

“Where’s Glory?” asks Dez, trying to move, trying to look around. He doesn’t even need to stop her, tell her to conserve her strength. She just… falls back. First time he’s seen her like this. Weak. Seeking comfort. No cigarette in her mouth.

First time for a lot of things.

“She’s here,” says Deacon. “Real close. Don’t worry.”

It’s too late to worry. Glory’s eyes have long since glazed over. She’s propped up against the wall, not six feet away. Only signs of disturbance when he found her were the laser burns on her chest and fingermarks on her cheeks.

He knows exactly where they came from.

“Where’s Charmer?” asks Dez, her brow furrowed.

Charmer. Fucking Charmer. They’d all been charmed, hadn’t they. They’d handed over weapons, they’d given everything to help her, and look at them now. Covered in blood and brick dust, scorched by Brotherhood fucking lasers. The one or two Brotherhood corpses didn’t make him feel much better. They’d been taken totally by surprise.

He’d been taken totally by surprise.  _Again_. Walking into the place had been just like Switchboard. Worse than Switchboard, because at least Charmer had been at his side, then.

Not any more.

Never again.

“I don’t know,” says Deacon. Understatement of the century.

Two point one centuries.

“Find her,” says Dez. “She’ll fix this.”

Not for the first time, Deacon’s glad of his glasses. Behind them, he can press closed his eyes and fight back the anger before it comes out.

_She already fixed us, Dez. She already fixed us good._

_And it’s my fucking fault._

He takes a deep breath, shifts slightly on his knees. It’s not safe to stay here. There’s no saying she won’t be back, the woman herself or her orange-clad boyfriends. Back to mop up the dregs. Sweep and fucking retrieve, or whatever the Brotherhood call it.

“Deacon?” says Dez, sensing his movement. “Don’t go. Stay with me. Please. Promise me you won’t go.”

He can’t promise anything. He shouldn’t promise anything. Look what happens when he does.

But… this is Dez. As much as they’ve had their differences, he owes her this much. He holds her hand, holds it tight as he can without hurting her, not that he thinks she can even feel it. And for the second time in his life, he looks into a woman’s dying eyes, and makes a promise that doesn’t mean half as much as it should do.

**“Hey, I’m with you, okay? Always.”**


	36. “I love you” - Arthur Maxson/Female Sole Survivor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “I love you.”  
> Characters/Relationship: Arthur Maxson/Female Sole Survivor  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/146810070578/maxson-realizing-hes-in-love-with-sole-but-the  
> Content advice: aaaaaangst. I did carry this on into a couple more posts (see URL above) but it never got expanded into a full thing because I'm a monster. :D

**“I love you.”**

For a moment, that thought is all there is. That thought is all  _he_ is. Then with blue fire crackling around him, his body returns, heavier than ever before, dragging him down to the ground. He grimaces, steels himself against the agonizing pain that sears through every nerve. His vision fades through shades of blood-red until muscles reform and he can open his eyes.

Blue.

Hubflower blue.

Sky.

He’s lying on his back on the relay platform, back in the airport. Brandis is standing over him. The Paladin’s head is bare, unruly strands of hair fluttering in the breeze, brow furrowed, face filled with concern.

With difficulty, he pushes himself to his elbows, and looks around. The Scribe and Initiate who had accompanied him in stand a little way away, leaning on each other for support. Their faces are no less lined with worry. Proctor Ingram is heading for the terminals that control the relay, her footsteps drowned out by the buzzing in his ears.

He’s the only one on the ground.

He was already falling when the relay had started to spark.

She’d stepped off the platform. He’d tried to follow her, to stop her, to  _tell_ her but she’d pushed him away, hard. He’d tripped, fallen over his own damned feet, and before he could form the words he was gone.

_I love you._

“Shit, shit, shit,” says Ingram. She taps rapidly on one terminal, then another. She lifts her hand as though she wants to run it through her hair in frustration, or to curse the sky. The sight of her at a loss makes his stomach lurch.

He forces recalcitrant muscles to fire and lift him to his feet. It feels like the first time he’s used them, that he’s a stranger to his own body, and a sickening thought occurs to him. What is he, now? Disassembled and reassembled at the other end of a stream of data? Did his life begin twenty-one years or five minutes ago?

Is he any better than a synth now?

Ingram’s head snaps around as she sees him rise. She’s more than concerned. She’s terrified.

“Where is she?” he asks, his mouth dry. His voice is weak, weak as a child’s to his barely-functioning ears.

Ingram only shakes her head, her eyes wide.

A gasp goes up behind him. He turns, just in time to see the flaming cloud form over the city, rising into the afternoon sky. A few seconds later, the sound of the explosion hits, deafening even from this distance. It echoes from every surface, rolling around him, seeming to come from every direction, even from the ground that shudders under his feet, shaking him to his core.

A few steps take him to one of the shattered walls of the old airport building. He rests his weight against it, sharp grit in the concrete rough against his palm. He stares out over the sea, watching the cloud as it spreads in the sky, as it threatens to blot out the sun.

Let it.

He doesn’t care any more.

He grits his teeth, and knows it’s a lie. He does care. That’s the problem. He’s suddenly angry with her. Furious.  _This_ is why he kept his distance.  _This_ is why he pushed her away. But she kept on coming, kept on trying, and at the last minute he’d let her back in.

_Idiot_.

He clenches his hand into a fist, and slams it into the wall. The burst of pain does nothing to distract him from an ache that’s no longer contained to his chest, that’s spreading through his limbs, right to his toes and the tips of his fingers. Sweat from his brow stings on split knuckles as he rests his forehead on his trembling hand. He watches, vision fading in and out, as a single drop of blood trickles down his wrist, and into his sleeve.

_I love you._

He takes a deep breath, pulling salt air into his lungs. He draws himself upright as he lets it back out. 

No.

_I loved you._

_So it’s my fault._


	37. “Wait a minute. Are you jealous?” - Nick Valentine, Female Sole Survivor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Wait a minute. Are you jealous?”  
> Characters/Relationship: Nick Valentine, Female Sole Survivor  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/146955915132/5-with-sole-and-valentine  
> Content advice: definitely-not-excessive noir

**“Wait a minute. Are you jealous?”**

A long hot day had given way to a long hot night, positively sultry. The air itself seemed to drip with sweat, every surface starting to collect the dew that’d make the walls and ground and just about everything wet by morning. He felt that old urge to pull out a handkerchief and mop the back of his neck, not that he even needed to any more.

Maybe it wasn’t just the air, but who he was with. Valentine was stood outside the Dugout Inn with probably the prettiest warlord the Commonwealth had ever seen. She was wearing a dress that seemed to be made out of the stars themselves, as though the dressmaker had plucked them out of the heavens and spun them right into the silk. And if the sky above the Commonwealth was missing a few sparkles, nobody’d miss ‘em anyway. It was the kind of place where nobody looked up any more, cos there was nothing to see. All the windows were gone from the walls, and all the gilt stripped from the roofs.

Plenty of guilt to go around at floor-level, mind.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, taking a sip from the glass cradled in her hand.

“Is that so,” he said, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He eased one out with the tip of his thumb and offered it to her, sharp metal leaving a dent in the dry old paper.

She plucked it free with two elegant fingers clad in black silk gloves that came right up over her elbows. If she’d looked like an angel before, she looked like a stone-cold mankiller now. She held the cigarette in the air until he tapped the gold fliplighter out of the pack to light it for her. Her eyes flickered down to his hand as the flame flickered up into the air, then lifted back up to his face, inspecting him for signs of weakness. She had her work made out for her, there, between the creased synthetic skin and jagged scars cut into it. See if you can find anything that isn’t fatigue or world-weariness, he thought. Go on, I’ll wait.

“Alright,” she said, with a single-shouldered shrug. “What if I am? He’s been talking to that reporter for half an hour now. What else is a girl supposed to think?”

“Piper? You know how she talks when she gets started,” he said, finally lighting a cigarette for himself. He blew out the smoke, a cloud of silver and pink in the night air, glowing in the bar’s neon lights. “Besides, he’s got eyes for nobody else, and hardly surprising.”

Her dark lips curved upwards into something that approximated a smile. “Sounds like you might be feeling a little of the green-eyed monster yourself,” she said, blowing out a cloud of smoke to meet his own.

“Huh,” he said. “These eyes are yellow now and that’s that. Besides, I’m far too old for that kinda nonsense. I leave it to you youngsters.”

She let out a low laugh, and leaned back against the building. “I got a hundred and forty years on you, don’t I?”

“Depends when you start counting,” he said. “Don’t make me pull the old Nick card on you.”

She narrowed her eyes and looked up at him through lush eyelashes. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh I’d dare alright,” he said, a smile creasing his cheeks. “And you better believe it. Now c’mon, General, it’s high time we got back to your party.”


	38. “Wait a minute. Are you jealous?” - Paladin Danse, John Hancock, Female Sole Survivor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Wait a minute. Are you jealous?” and “Come over here and make me.”  
> Characters/Relationship: Paladin Danse, John Hancock, Female Sole Survivor  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/147059889520/first-i-your-blog-and-i-would-like-to-ask-for  
> Content advice:

**“Wait a minute. Are you jealous?”  
**

Her voice is pitched low, low enough that the Paladin standing over by the entry gate can’t hear her, not around those daft shoulderpads of his. He hasn’t so much as glanced over his shoulder in a good ten minutes, obviously decidin’ that the dirty looks he was giving before weren’t gettin’ him any closer to leaving.

Good job, too, cos if he did, he’d see his Knight coppin’ a double-handed feel of the Mayor of Goodneighbor’s ass, right in full view of everyone.

Hancock grins, as well you might in the face of such provocation. Well, in front of such provocation, really, cos she’s actually behind him, leanin’ forward over his shoulder, close enough that the front corner of his hat knocks into the side of her forehead when he turns to answer her.

“Maybe,” he says.

“Why?” she asks.

“Well,” he says. “How come some no-life tin can gets to go gallavantin’ around the Commonwealth with someone as cool as you?”

“What’s the alternative?” she asks. “Getting high with a low-life like you?”

He jabs an elbow back into her stomach, just hard enough to make her squeak. “I think I’m supposed to resent that,” he says, “but yeah, now you mention it. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

“Alright,” she says. “You’ve twisted my arm.”

With a last unnecessary (but not exactly unwelcome) squeeze of his ass, she steps out into the courtyard.

“Paladin Danse,” she says, raising her voice.

The tin can turns a little to look over his shoulder, his eye twitchin’ as he’s forced to regard the depravity before him (otherwise known as John Hancock).

“I won’t be coming back to the Prydwen just yet,” she continues.

The Paladin’s eyebrows rise half-way to his hairline. “What?”

“You heard me,” she says.

“We agreed this morning that this would be only a temporary diversion.”

She shrugs, single-shouldered. “Something’s come up.”

Hancock leans back against the Old State House and chuckles to himself, cos that ain’t true right now but he’s willin’ to bet that it will be later.

“Knight,” says the Paladin, seriously. “This is highly irregular. We have our orders, direct from the Elder.”

“Had,” she says, inspecting her fingernails. “Mission’s complete, isn’t it?”

His eyebrows rise most of the remaining way to his hairline. “Yes,” he says, “but we should still return promptly. There will be further missions. The Commonwealth is unlikely to cleanse itself.”

At that, the Paladin casts a meaningful look around the dirty, stinking, downright  _homey_  center of Goodneighbor.

(Asshole.)

“And what about your report?“

“I’ll post it to you,” she says.

The Paladin stands still for a moment, thoughts drifting slowly through his mind, ponderous as a drunken yao-guai. No, bigger’n that. Maybe an iceberg, except that doesn’t work either cos those have hidden depths. Somethin’ real slow, whatever it is. All seems to fall into place, or maybe he just realises the ultimate futility of arguing with a lawyer, cos he just turns on his heels and trudges silently away.

(Well. He would, if he weren’t in a big ol’ tin can that shakes the ground with every step he takes. But give him partial credit for tryin’.)

“There goes a lonely man,” says Hancock, when she turns back to him. “Sad, almost.”

She snorts. “He’s a big boy,” she says. “He can entertain himself. Now. What were you saying about getting high with the low-life?”

“Oh yeah,” says Hancock. “I think I was in the middle of bein’ resentful about that slur upon my good character. Let me see, ‘you take that back’.”

He reaches out for her arm but she grins, and skips out just of his reach, light-footed as a dancer.

(Flexible as one, too, you dig?)

From her new position, hand on the door of the Old State House, she beckons to him with a sly grin.

**“Come over here and make me.”**


	39. “YOU DID WHAT?!” - Arthur Maxson, Paladin Danse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “YOU DID WHAT?!”  
> Characters/Relationship: Arthur Maxson, Paladin Danse  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/147115554350/for-the-prompt-43-maxson-and-danse-please  
> Content advice:

**“YOU DID WHAT?!”**

The Elder’s bearing hasn’t changed since Danse entered the room; stiff-shouldered, straight-backed, proud as ever. But his tone, that’s gone through a whole range of what might be termed emotions. Anger. Disappointment. And now, outright incredulity.

“I recruited him,” repeats Danse.

Maxson turns away from the window, and fixes him with a cold stare. “That’s not your job,” he says. His hands are clasped tight behind his back, but his words may as well be accompanied by a finger jabbing in the air.

“I saw potential and took the initiative,” says Danse. “McKay belonged to the military, pre-war. I do not believe it will take long to bring him up to our standards.”

To tell the truth, the man was somewhat undisciplined, though not exactly soft around the edges. That would have been understandable, given his circumstances. But back at the station, picking off those damned ferals with a series of neat headshots despite their erratic attack patterns, he’d proven himself to have an instinctive eye for combat.

Still; that doesn’t explain why Danse is leaping to his defense so quickly. Haylen had sent out a local signal on a military frequency. Someone had responded. It was a simple distress call, like hundreds of others heard around the Commonwealth, most of them never answered.

He was simply grateful that McKay had responded to his.

That’s all it was.

He carries on, summarizes the Arc-Jet mission for the Elder, describes McKay’s conduct. He took orders, with good temper. He provided useful tactical advice. He took no risks to prove his capabilities, and as he says that Danse realizes he could name a dozen Brotherhood soldiers who fail at that on a regular basis.

In fact, he’s looking at one of them right now.

Then he’s struck by an uncomfortable thought. Teenage heroics aside, when  _was_ the last time Maxson had been in that situation? Boots on the ground, backs to the wall? Faced by the results of your decisions, guts and all?

When was the last time he did any of the dirty work?

Maxson barks another question. “You took an untested, untrained civilian out on a critical Brotherhood mission?”

“Yes,” says Danse.

“And you let him restock ammunition and stimpaks from supplies you already knew were running extremely low?”

“Yes,” says Danse.

Maxson’s eyes glint dangerously. “You may as well have handed him your weapon, as well.”

At that, Danse feels a slight pang of guilt. While he had retained the superior weapon, he had indeed handed Brotherhood equipment over to someone who was still effectively a civilian.

But he’d  _earned_  it.

Danse had also hoped he’d be impressed by it.

McKay wasn’t an impressionable youth, looking for an easy way out of a difficult life. He hadn’t just seen his first set of power armor and been stunned by the strength and might of it. He hadn’t just seen his first laser rifle and been awed by the sheer power of it. He could have walked away unimpressed, unmoved, hawking the rifle to the nearest junk vendor, never to be seen again.

But he hadn’t. He’d crashed back through the door of the police station, not even a week later, and dropped a pack full of fusion cells and purified water on the desk.

“Paladin Danse,” he’d said, with a grin. “I’ve come to claim my free vertibird ride.”

The sense of relief had been palpable, and… unexpected.

“So, Paladin,” says Maxson, bringing him back to the present. “You truly believe he’ll be an asset to the Brotherhood?”

“There’s not a single doubt in my mind,” says Danse.

And for the first time in a long time, that’s the absolute truth.


	40. “Wait a minute. Are you jealous?” - Cait, Deacon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Wait a minute. Are you jealous?”  
> Characters/Relationship: Cait, Deacon  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/147152976655/5-deacon-cait-3  
> Content advice:

**“Wait a minute. Are you jealous?”**

“Shut yer face.”

Cait looks away, scratches at the label on her bottle, and pointedly ignores the arsehole sat opposite her in the hopes he’ll go away. But she knows well enough by now that that’s not going to work, so after a couple of minutes she looks back up at him. Sure enough, he’s got that infuriating little half-smile on his lips, and fuck only knows what’s going on behind those sunglasses of his.

“An’ if I am,” she says, “what do you care?”

He reaches out, rests a hand on her forearm. “I just don’t want there to be any hard feelings, you know?”

She shakes off his hand and tries to think of something cutting to say in reply, but she only manages a faint sneer that probably makes her look about as ridiculous as she feels. Because she is jealous, and it is stupid, and she  _knows_ it’s stupid.

She still fuckin’ is, though.

“C'mon, Cait,” says Deacon. “Giving me the silent treatment on such a momentous occasion. That’s hardly fair.”

_Neither’s the occasion_ , she thinks, but she manages not to say it.

It’s bad enough Nate and his Paladin bein’ all lovey dovey down in the Castle, but now that Hancock and MacCready have gone off up to Bunker Hill together on some grand mission or other she’s been sat alone in Goodneighbor for almost a week.

Well. Alone except for Deacon. Cait’s not sure which of those two options is worse but it looks like she’s about to find out, cos the lovebirds want some help training their new recruits. Not much use having an army if they can’t fight for shite.

But they’d asked for Deacon to go down and help ‘em.

_Deacon._

Wankers.

She shrugs, pretending to be indifferent. “Why’d you even bother?”

“I didn’t want you to wake up tomorrow with me gone,” says Deacon. “I know you’d be heartbroken.”

“Hardly,” she says. “Be like bitin’ off a broken nail. Don’t realise how much it’s been annoyin’ you til it’s gone.”

“Well, that’s totally not true,” says Deacon. “You know that I know that you know exactly how much I annoy you. That’s why we’re best friends, right?”

He grins, so widely that she has to look away before she starts smiling too.

“Welp,” he says, getting to his feet, stretching his arms over his head. “I guess I’d better go start packing for the journey. The one I’ll be taking tomorrow. Down to the Castle. Alone.”

She returns to the task of scratching the label from her bottle.

She breaks a fucking nail doing it.

His rubber-soled shoes are so quiet on the floor, she can barely hear him go. She’s not going to look at him, either, so she counts it down, ten seconds to the door, fifteen seconds to the stairs, then as long as he doesn’t get into conversation with Ham he’ll be out into Goodneighbor before a minute’s through.

She gets to twenty-three.

“Oh yeah,” he drawls.

She looks up to see just his head in the doorway.

“I forgot to mention,” he says. “They want you too. Meet me at the gate at nine. Ten. Or, whenever you like, really, I haven’t done enough people-watching lately so I’m easy on timings.”

He doesn’t react when she pushes aside the table, its wooden legs scraping loud on the floor. He doesn’t flinch when she takes the few steps to close the distance between them. He doesn’t resist when she bunches the front of his t-shirt up in her fist and pulls him close to her, nose-to-nose.

He just grins. As always.

“Deacon,” she says, “you’re a fuckin’ arsehole.”

“And you love me for it,” he says. “Right?”


	41. “Kiss me” - Paladin Danse, John Hancock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Kiss me.”  
> Characters/Relationship: Paladin Danse, John Hancock  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/147205724300/13-or-32-for-paladin-danse-and-hancock-btw-i-love  
> Content advice:

**“Kiss me.”**

At first, Danse isn’t sure that he’s heard correctly. The Dugout Inn is loud this evening, full of people trying to talk to the General, or take advantage of the free bar to get as drunk as they can as quickly as they can.

He can usually trust his ears, though, so the comment must have been directed at someone else.

Except there’s nobody else nearby.

Hancock is propped up against the bar next to him, with chin held high and a little smile on his face. Danse is still not entirely confident at reading the Mayor’s expressions; he’s never been that good with human faces, either. But that smile. He knows that smile. He’s spent the best part of a month in the Castle with Deacon treating him to that smile almost daily. It’s a sure sign that whatever he was about to say or has just said was designed to piss him off.

“I beg your pardon?”

“C'mon,” says Hancock. “Just a little one. It can be on a cheek, if you like. I’ll even let ya pick which one.”

At that, Hancock winks.

“I’ll pass,” says Danse.

“Sure?” says Hancock.

“Yes,” says Danse. “I’m sure.”

“Positive?” says Hancock, his smile widening.

Danse turns his head toward him, slowly, and straightens his back just a little. It’s just to stretch his spine after a couple of hours leaning against the bar, which is just a little too low for comfort. But it so happens that it gives him an extra couple of inches of height over the ghoul, who now has to tip up the front of his tricorner hat to meet his eyes.

When he does, those black eyes are sparkling with amusement. “Eh,” he says. “Can’t blame me for tryin’.”

He pulls his hat back down, and tips another shot of moonshine into his glass, waggling the bottle at Danse.

Danse declines that offer, too.

“Great party, huh?” says Hancock. “The Bobrovs sure know how to put on a do. Looks like they cleaned the floor, too. Has to be a  _real_ fancy affair to get Charlie handlin’ a mop.”

After being cooped up in the Home Plate with Hancock for nearly a week, Danse can think of a dozen people he’d rather be talking to. But, he realizes, Hancock has been in the exact same situation. After everything he’d said to him before… well,  _before_ , he’d forgive the Mayor for being considerably less polite with him.

“Always been partial to their particular brand of moonshine, too,” says Hancock, draining his glass, and staring at the label on the bottle. “Oh. Finest, huh? They don’t ship this to Goodneighbor.”

“Is there really a difference?” asks Danse. He doubts it. After one hazily-remembered night in Cambridge Police Station, when a bottle had turned up in a sweep, he swore never to touch the stuff again. Finest or otherwise.

Hancock pours another shot. “Kinda weak, by comparison,” he says, delicately holding the glass to the remnants of his nose. “There’s an aroma of… no, I have no idea. It’s all about the burn. This don’t feel like it’s rippin’ the inside of my throat out so you can tell it’s the good stuff.”

There’s a tap on his shoulder. He turns to see the General standing beside him, an empty glass in her hand.

“Am I interrupting?” she asks.

Seeing her is like stepping out into sunshine.

First he’d been dragged away by Piper and grilled on the current state of affairs at the Castle. Then by the time he’d managed to bore her away with the most tedious detail he could remember, the General had struck up conversation with Valentine. And, of course, as soon as Valentine had excused himself, Danse had been cornered by Hancock.

But now she’s here, and he’s so busy thinking about how relieved he is to see her that he forgets to speak.

“Yeah, actually,” says Hancock, from behind him.

“Oh,” she says, with a smile. “Well, I’ll just get my drink and be going…”

“No,” says Danse, quickly. “Not at all.”

The General’s eyes flicker to the side, looking over his shoulder. She stifles a laugh behind her gloved hand.

Danse turns around to see Hancock’s eyes wide and his hand pressed to his chest.

“Wounded,” says Hancock. “To my very core.”

“I apologize,” says Danse. “That was impolite of me.”

“I don’t know if I can ever forgive you,” says Hancock. “But you know how you might persuade me to, right?”

He leans in close, and grins, and before he speaks Danse knows exactly which words are coming next.

_Kiss me._


	42. “Wait a minute. Are you jealous?” - Paladin Danse/Female Sole Survivor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Wait a minute. Are you jealous?”  
> Characters/Relationship: Paladin Danse/Female Sole Survivor  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/147504509037/5-with-female-sole-x-post-bb-danse-please-lovely  
> Content advice:

**“Wait a minute. Are you jealous?”**

“Of course not,” he replies.

She’s fairly sure he’s lying. He’s been giving her the cold shoulder for days. On passing her in the corridors of the Castle, he’s barely been nodding a greeting. On her arrival into a room or area, he’s been making excuses to leave. And now he’s hidden himself away in the armory, and is slamming around with crates as carelessly as if they weren’t crammed with home-made explosives.

“So,” she says. “What’s this about?”

“This place is extremely disorganized,” he says. “It’s just not befitting of a serious military operation. It’s impossible to find anything or be certain of…”

“Danse,” she interrupts, “it’s past midnight.”

“I am aware of that,” he says. “Working at this hour limits any potential disruption for soldiers who may require resupply during the day.”

She folds her arms, and watches him for a moment. He hefts the crates around easily, crates that would probably require two of her to lift. Even so, the exertion is causing his breath to become heavy, and darkening patches of his shirt.

“Is this about Deacon?” she asks. It seems ridiculous to her, but she can’t deny that the odd behavior began at the same time as the Railroad agent had arrived at the Castle.

Danse runs his hand over his face. “Of course not,” he says.

That’s a lie, too.

“He asked if he could help,” she says. “He has the intel, and he knows the Commonwealth as well as I do. Probably better, even.”

“Well,” says Danse. “I wish you luck with the mission. With his gun at your side, I’m sure you’ll be successful. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

She’s just about ready to give in and leave him to it, when the oddness of the phrasing strikes her.

His gun at your side?

Does he mean Deacon, or Deliverer?

She dismisses the thought. It’s just a gun, a tool, something to get the job done quickly and quietly. Nothing more than that. But her mind takes her back to a sunny day almost six months earlier. Standing outside Arc-Jet Systems, holding a shiny new laser rifle in her bruised hands.

_My own personal modification._

_Righteous Authority._

He thinks she’s rejected his gift. He doesn’t know that she still has it, locked up tight in a trunk under her desk.

“Danse,” she starts, but he holds up his hand to stop her.

“I swore to stay by your side,” he says, “You don’t want me there. I respect your decision.”

He thinks she’s rejected  _him_.

“That’s not how it is at all,” she says.

“I accept and respect your decision,” he repeats.

But it’s  _not_  her decision. It’s fucking  _Maxson’s_  decision. That’s what has her flinching at the sound of every vertibird, that’s what has her hiding away from distant Brotherhood patrols, even with Danse safe and sound behind the thick concrete walls of the Castle. It’s selfish perhaps, but she can’t take him out into the Commonwealth. She just can’t. She can’t risk losing him. He means far too much to her.

And he still has no idea.

“Danse,” she says. “Look at me.”

He only complies after she repeats herself, and when he does it’s with obvious reluctance. His eyes are shadowed, and they meet hers for barely a second before darting away, drawn downward by the movement of her fingers.

She unbuttons the top pocket of her coat and pulls out the broken chain of his holotags. They gleam under the electric lights, and the quiet metallic sound as they bounce against each other echoes in the otherwise silent room.

His eyebrows rise, and his eyes widen.

“You’re always by my side,” she says, heat rushing into her cheeks. She’d wanted to say something before. There had been moments when she’d come close, but her tongue had tied itself in knots or she’d persuaded herself that it wasn’t the right time.

This doesn’t really seem like the right time, either.

Too late to worry about that now.


	43. “I’m pregnant” - Preston Garvey/Female Sole Survivor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “I’m pregnant” and "Marry me"  
> Characters/Relationship: Preston Garvey/Female Sole Survivor  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/147553341165/could-you-please-do-a-27-which-moves-into-a-28  
> Content advice: TOO CUTE TO HANDLE

**“I’m pregnant.”**

Her hands are soft against his, holding them in a grip that’s so calm and steady that it’s hard to believe what she’s just said. He waits, half to let the words sink in, half to wait for her to laugh and tell him she’s joking.

Neither of those things happen, which means he should probably reply rather than stare at her with his mouth hanging open.

“Oh,” he says, casting around for some words. “Uh, how?”

She raises an eyebrow at him.

Sure, they’d talked about it, but he’d just assumed it’d be like it was for everyone else, years of trying, maybe never even happening. But they have been sharing a bed for a while, now. Or a bedroll. Or, you know. A couple other places around the Castle.

“I mean,” he says, quickly, “I know  _how_. What I meant to say was how do you know?”

“The usual,” she says. “Waking up to eye-watering nausea, then when that’s gone, a desperate urge to eat a brand of soup that hasn’t existed since I was a kid. And you mean to say you haven’t noticed how Mama Murphy’s been looking at us?”

He had, actually, he’d just passed it off as Mama being Mama. She’d already known that they were together, but she’d been hinting at that since well before Concord. He’d assumed the knowing looks since they’d arrived back in Sanctuary were just more of the same.

Apparently not.

Damn.

He wonders when it happened, then realises with a jolt that it must have been back at the Castle. And that means that he’s just made a pregnant woman walk the whole length of the Commonwealth, carrying her own pack and her own weapons. Sweat prickles at his brow as he remembers the journey. They’d flushed out and eliminated two groups of raiders who’d been bothering nearby settlements, not to mention the number of ferals and mutants and insects they’d had to deal with along the way.

He pushes the thoughts away. They didn’t know. She’s fine. He’s fine. He’s more than fine, in fact. Hard to believe, considering where he was just six months ago, down and out with nothing left to live for. Now here he is, full of hope for the Commonwealth, in love with an incredible woman, and now he’s going to be a father.

He’s going to be a  _father_.

Holy  _shit_.

A smile spreads across his face, unprompted. He can’t stop it. He wouldn’t want to stop it, either, because the wider it gets, the wider the smile on her face gets too.

“So,” she says. “You happy?”

He grabs her, wraps his arms around her shoulders, and presses his cheek into her hair. “Never happier.  _Never_.”

“Okay,” she says, her voice muffled by his shoulder. “Who do we tell first?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “There’s just so many people. Everyone here, and the Castle. Diamond City. Hell, I want to tell the whole damn Commonwealth.”

“Big old radio tower back at the Castle,” she says. “We could go back there, put out a broadcast.”

“No way,” he says. “I’m not making you go back there. Do you know how far it is? It’s way too dangerous.”

She pulls back, and narrows her eyes at him. “Don’t start that nonsense,” she says. “I made it up here fine, didn’t I? Besides, when we do leave, I think we should go to Diamond City first.”

“Why?” he asks.

“Well, you know,” she says, letting out a nervous laugh. “Maybe I should have done this before. I did want to, but then we were on the road and, uh, this happened a little faster than I was expecting.”

“It’s okay,” he says, his heart beating about three times too fast.

She rummages in her pocket and pulls out something that glints golden in the sunshine. “Preston Garvey,” she says, holding up a simple ring between thumb and forefinger. “I’d say I’d like to make an honest man out of you, but that would imply that you weren’t already perfect in every way. So, failing that…”

He’s already nodding and saying yes, before she’s even finished saying the next two words.

**“Marry me?”**


	44. “Do you… well… I mean… I could give you a massage?” - Deacon, MacCready

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Do you… well… I mean… I could give you a massage?”  
> Characters/Relationship: Deacon, MacCready  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/147958031005/please-please-please-4-with-deacon-and-maccready  
> Content advice:

**“Do you… well… I mean… I could give you a massage?”**

“Aww, Mac,” says Deacon. “I didn’t know you felt that way. But maybe not out in the wilds of the Commonwealth with raiders lining up to shoot at us. You know better than that.”

As if on cue, a spray of gunfire echoes out from a nearby street, accompanied by a faint but heartfelt scream.

“I don’t… ugh,” says MacCready, indignantly. “Just trying to think of a way to stop you complaining, is all.”

“I’m not complaining.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m really not.”

“Fine,” says MacCready, rolling his eyes at Deacon’s back. “Whatever.”

They walk on in silence for a little longer. The route between the North End and Diamond City is strewn with dangers. Literally. There’s a pile of fallen girders lying right across the whole street, packed together with dust and dirt and shi… Uh. Something that’s dark and sticky and smells foul, at any rate.

He tries not to breathe through his nose. As Deacon starts to climb over the mess, MacCready’s got his rifle at the ready and his eye on the road. You can never be too careful. And apparently Deacon can’t be careful at all, today; he slips, stretches out his arms to steady himself, then half-jumps, half-falls down to the ground on the other side of the pile. He’s standing there, head bowed, clutching his shoulder and groaning.

“Yeah,” mutters MacCready, scrambling over the pile himself. “Totally not complaining”

Deacon turns back to face him. He might be glaring. Hard to tell, without being able to see his eyes. But his brow’s kinda furrowed and his mouth’s pressed into a hard, thin line, and that’s what he normally looks like when he’s trying not to laugh.

MacCready does some glaring of his own.

_You’re not getting me this time, Deacon._

They stand like that for a good half a minute, not that he’s about to check his watch to verify that. He knows full well that you don’t look away from Deacon mid-argument. You never know what he’ll be doing when you look back. But the glare’s still going on, and Deacon’s still holding his shoulder, and MacCready starts to feel a bit bad. If he is in pain…

Ah shit.

“Fine,” he says. “I…”

“Okay,” says Deacon, “Maybe I am complaining. A tad. But it’s a legitimate complaint. And, might I add, totally your fault.”

There’s a shop nearby, looks like it used to have books in it before they all got turned to lumps of charcoal. Most of the front wall is smashed, probably by the girders when they fell, but it’s reasonably sheltered. A better place for triage than the middle of the road, anyway. MacCready sweeps it for ferals, and once he’s sure it’s clear beckons Deacon in.

“You’re the one that insisted on going over the fence instead of around it,” he says, dropping his pack and rummaging through it.

Deacon leans against a dirt-stained counter. “You’re the one that decided to shout at me when I was already half-way over. Very distracting.”

“I thought I saw something,” protests MacCready. “What, would you prefer I let you drop headfirst into a deathclaw nest?”

“I did always want a pet deathclaw,” says Deacon, a tired smile softening his expression. “I could have picked up a fresh one.”

“Don’t even joke,” says MacCready, with a shudder. He digs out a stimpak, unwraps it, and after the usual preemptive apology sticks it into Deacon’s arm. He watches him for a moment as he tests it out. “Good range of motion?”

“Yeah.”

“No pain?”

“Nope.”

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s get going.”

He shoulders his pack, but Deacon doesn’t move.

“C'mon,” he says, impatiently.

With a sigh, Deacon pushes away from the counter. “I guess this means I don’t get my massage.”

MacCready grins. “Not in the wilds of the Commonwealth with raiders lining up to shoot at us. C'mon, Deacon. You know better than that.”


	45. “So, I found this waterfall…” - Paladin Danse, Arthur Maxson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “So, I found this waterfall…”  
> Characters/Relationship: Paladin Danse, Arthur Maxson  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/148009012913/could-you-do-15-with-danse-and-maxson-itd-make  
> Content advice: 
> 
> This fic also appears in [The Deaconomicon](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8317723/chapters/19047928).

**“So, I found this waterfall…”**

Maxson turned around and fixed the Paladin with a steely glare. “And?”

“It appears to be a good source of potable water,” said Danse, his eyebrows rising slightly at the harshness of the Elder’s tone. “And besides, we’ve been walking for days. I for one could do with a wash.”

Maxson stroked his beard. “The light is fading,” he said. “This seems as good a spot as any to shelter for the night.”

“Outstanding,” said the Paladin.

They worked quickly to set up a rough camp. Soon, with bedrolls laid out behind them in worn but perfectly serviceable Brotherhood tents, they sat down together in front of a small campfire. A pan of noodles bubbled over the flames, sending savory aromas up into the night air.

“I admire you, Danse,” said Maxson, idly poking at the fire with a stick.

Danse’s eyebrows shot up high on his forehead. “You do?” he said.

“I expect only the best from my men,” said Maxson. “And that is what you provide. Consistently. Cheerfully.”

“It…” said Danse. “I…”

“And,” said Maxson, with an awkward cough, “on a personal level…”

Just then, a sound rang out around the forest.

“What was that?” asked Maxson, blanching under his beard.

“I’m not sure,” said Danse, looking around the clearing, brow furrowed.

“It sounded like a word,” said the Elder. “Or a name.”

Whatever it was, it was indistinguishable over the low roar of the waterfall.

“As I was saying,” said Maxson, but before he could continue, it happened again. A sound boomed out, crashing in on the idyllic scene like an unexpected deathclaw. This time it did sound like a word, and a voice, a voice that seemed more urgent, sharper, and infinitely more annoying than before.

“Deacon,” says Charmer. “Come on. I need you to help me with something.”

“I’m kinda busy right now,” he says.

She blinks. “You’re sitting in a bar making two teddy bears talk to each other.”

“Yeah,” says Deacon, winking at MacCready, whose shoulders are shaking with laughter. “Like I said. I’m busy.”

Charmer sighs. “Come on. This is important. Where did you get the bears anyway?”

Deacon shrugs. “Around.”

“And… what have you done to their faces?”

“Eyebrows,” he says, holding up one. He puts it down and lifts the other, waggling it in the air. “And beard. They’re very important for the story.”

MacCready snorts.

Charmer grabs the bearded bear from Deacon’s hands and stares into its cold, black eyes. She can’t possibly miss the rip that runs down the side of the bear’s face, white stuffing showing through rough stitches.

“It was like that when I found it,” says Deacon.

“I thought you said you hadn’t seen him in the flesh,” she says, a suspicious tone entering her voice.

“Well,” he says, getting to his feet, brushing imaginary dust from his knees. “That might not have been  _entirely_ true. Back then I wasn’t sure if I could trust you with my deepest, darkest secrets. But now… well.”

In reply, she raises an eyebrow. 

He sidles up beside her and claps an arm around her shoulders. “Oh, Charmer,” he says. “Do I have some stories for you.”


	46. “It could be worse” - Curie, Male Sole Survivor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “It could be worse.”  
> Characters/Relationship: Curie, Male Sole Survivor  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/148063003595/16-with-curie-and-mss  
> Content advice: angst

**“It could be worse.”**

Curie wipes clean her hands and seats herself at the table. Opposite her, Nate stands leaning over a dirty old map spread out on the surface. He traces a curving line on it with his index finger, his lips moving as he does so, ending with a little shake of his head.

“How?” she asks.

This is something he says often, when things are going not so well. His habit is to wait for her to ask the question, then to come up with some unlikely situation that will make the present one seem less grave. Then he smiles, and his eyes twinkle, and Curie’s stomach flutters.

Unfortunately, this time he does not smile and his eyes do not twinkle. When he speaks, he is still staring at the map. “I’m not sure,” is what he says, and only then does he look at her, with a frown.

Curie’s stomach lurches.

It is a simple physiological response. She tries to ignore it, and she is pleased when she does quite well. But she still wishes he would smile, and give her the flutters instead.

He lifts his left arm and with his right hand twists the dials and flips through the screens of his Pip-Boy. He has so many notes and pieces of data and pictures stored inside it. Few among them make any sense to Curie, when he ever shows them to her.

“This is where we are,” he says, pointing at the map. “And this is where those bastard ferals were coming from. What’s worse than ferals?”

Curie thinks. She would say molerats, nasty little creatures they are, but Nate is not as afraid of them as she is. He is not afraid of any animals. Only people.

“Raiders,” she says.

He nods, and moves his finger a few centimetres to the right. “They’re all holed up here. We can go north or south. What do you think is here?”

His finger moves again. She stands, and moves around the table to see, and to stand beside him. It is a road to which he is pointing. It crosses the map in a straight line from left to right, but even she knows that half of it is gone, the rest claimed by a group little better than raiders.

“Gunners?” she says.

“Yeah,” he replies. “That overpass is absolutely infested with them. South then. But guess what’s there, and worse than Gunners.”

His tone is patient and quiet, and rather than laying out the dangers, he is making sure that she can recognise them for herself. He wants her to be safe. He cares enough for that.

She feels the tiniest of flutters begin, even though there is no contact between them, and he does not turn his head to look at her.

She is supposed to say supermutants. She knows that, she recognises the name of the place at which he is pointing very well. But she wants to show him that she does not do nothing, in all the time he spends away from her, when he leaves her in the Castle with his Minutemen and walks away without a backward glance. She thinks. She asks questions. She learns. And she has learned about another group in the Commonwealth, those with the strange floating ship above the airport. She has learned what they have been doing, and the things they have been saying.

Curie does not like them one bit.

“The Brotherhood of Steel,” she says.

He turns his head, fast, and she sees the look of confusion and then sadness cross his face. He lets out a long, slow breath and she understands now where he has been. Why he could not tell her.

She fights the urge to press a hand to her stomach. It hurts. But it is not real pain.

“I’m sorry, Curie,” he says. “They’ve just… they’ve got what we need.”

She nods, and turns her attention to the map.

It is a simple physiological response. It should not hurt this much.

But it does.


	47. “Come over here and make me” - Sturges/Male Sole Survivor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Come over here and make me.”  
> Characters/Relationship: Sturges/Male Sole Survivor  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/148506645985/sturgesmsole-for-prompt-number-1  
> Content advice:

**“Come over here and make me.”**

“C'mon man,” says Sturges. “Don’t be an ass. Just give it back.”

Vaultie’s stood next to that big ol’ set of power armor, the one he used to save their skins back in Concord. Far as Sturges knows he ain’t touched it since then, leavin’ it here just to gather dust and get in the way, pretty much. Could get a nice big workbench in that corner if it weren’t there, and he’s lost count of the number of times he’s stubbed a toe on the damned foot of it.

Anyway, the Vaultie’s stood over by it right now, tossin’ a wrench from hand to hand, spinnin’ it in the air like a dog tossin’ a bone. And not just any wrench.  _Sturges_ ’ wrench. His good one, the one he only gets out for the really big jobs that need a firm grip and a whole lot of muscle.

But the Vaultie ain’t no mechanic. He can’t fix a damn thing, in fact. Closest he gets to manual labor is when he pulls out a flickknife and cuts his way into a box of goodies delivered direct from Goodneighbor.  _WITH LOVE FROM KL-E-0_  they got printed on the side of ‘em, and man is he protective over the contents.

That is, until he needs somethin’ doin’ with them.

_Not dressed for the occasion, am I_  is what he always says when he needs one of those things doin’.

He ain’t dressed for the occasion much of the time, or at least that’s how it seems to Sturges. Not now, for sure, standin’ there as he is in a sharp-cut suit with a bright white shirt and narrow tie. What with the sideswept hair, dark on top and fully gray on the sides, he looks like an old-world businessman. Should be takin’ phonecalls and tappin’ at a terminal rather than stood here in Sturges’ garage tossin’ a wrench in the air.

Speakin’ of which…

Sturges holds out his hand, and gestures with his fingers.

“C'mon,” he repeats. “Give it back.”

Vaultie looks at him with that impassive face of his. Sharp nose, flat little mouth, kinda flat eyebrows too, all surroundin’ a pair of bright gray eyes that sparkle even in this shabby old place. He sticks a hand in his pocket and holds out the wrench with the other.

_Peace, huh? Well, alright._

Sturges takes a hold of the end of it, but Vaultie don’t let go. Sturges gives it a tug, but the other man only keeps a firm hold, lettin’ Sturges pull himself just a tad off-balance. Must be hidin’ a strong pair of arms under there, and it ain’t the first time Sturges has found himself thinkin’ of ‘em. He still ain’t got the goddamned wrench back, though, and he’s just about to protest in slightly stronger terms than before when Vaultie lets go.

Sturges is left stood there with the wrench in his outstretched hand, unbalanced in more ways than one. He spots the tiniest twitch of a smile showing at the corner of Vaultie’s mouth, and realises he’s maybe havin’ a little more fun than he’s lettin’ on.

“Bad manners to touch a man’s tools,” says Sturges, turning away to put it back where it belongs.

Vaultie leans back against a cabinet, casual as you like. “That so?”

“Yeah,” he replies, shootin’ the word over his shoulder. “'specially without buyin’ him a drink first.”

There’s a silence, then just a movement of air as the Vaultie passes behind him, feet strangely quiet on the concrete.

“Well,” he says, as he heads out into Sanctuary. “I’d better get a bar set up quick, hadn’t I?”


	48. “Is there a reason you’re naked in my bed?” - Arthur Maxson, Deacon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Is there a reason you’re naked in my bed?”  
> Characters/Relationship: Arthur Maxson, Deacon  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/150318300942/6-with-maxson-deacon-pleasee  
> Content advice: 
> 
> This fic also appears in [The Deaconomicon](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8317723/chapters/19048249).

**“Is there a reason you’re naked in my bed?”**

The Lancer-Initiate was, generally speaking, the unflappable type. You go through a lot of training in the Brotherhood to make sure of that. Can’t have flapping on the battlefield, not unless you’ve got a whole crew of trained battlepigeons to do your bidding.

(now there’s an idea.)

Anyway, he was, as mentioned, the model of unflappability. He’d been on board the Prydwen for a few months, perusing technical documentation and constantly rubbing shoulders with the finest specimens of humanity the Brotherhood of Steel had to offer. That had de-flappabled him still further.

However, it still hadn’t truly prepared him for the sight that greeted him on that fateful night, as he returned to his bunk after a long day of technical documenting and shoulder-rubbing.

It was weird enough to begin with that half the crew’s bunks were out in the open walkways of the zep, especially with all the explosive gases flying around. It wasn’t so much weird as annoying when someone decided they needed a nap and hopped into any old bunk to start snoring.

However: it was really weird when that person turned out to be the Big Boss Man.

The Lancer-Initiate stood at the end of his own bunk, looking down on the Elder. He was lying there with the blanket pulled up to just below his armpits, arms folded across both the blanket and his impressively broad chest, suddenly revealed as sporting a fair amount of extremely manly chest hair.

The Elder treated him to a cool stare, which is pretty easy with a pair of eyes like his. Though… not so much when you’re ass-naked and rubbing yourself on someone’s sheets. That’s just too much fun to waste a straight face on it.

“You’ve destroyed sensitive information,” said the Elder. “You’ve defaced Brotherhood property. And you’ve consistently cheeked and talked back to your superiors, myself included.”

The Lancer-Initiate nodded thoughtfully. It was somewhat unfortunate that all those things had been noticed. But, the Brotherhood were supposed to be a highly-effective organization full of highly-trained experts, after all. They should have been able to detect a craftily-disguised agen…

uh…

A highly-trained Lancer-Initiate who  _totally_ knew how to fly a vertibird.

“You’ve been trying to get my attention,” said the Elder.

That wasn’t  _exactly_ the Lancer-Initiate’s plan. He preferred a more hush-hush approach. Uh… to vertibirds. They like it when you talk to them, but only if you use your inside-voice, otherwise they get spooked and you have to chase them.

(What do you mean, that’s brahmin? Who’s the Lancer-Initiate here?)

“Well,” said the Elder, raising his arms, and tucking his hands behind his head. A little more chest hair peeked out from under the blanket, and perhaps just the edge of a nipple. “Now you’ve got it.”

The Lancer-Initiate raised his eyebrows.

“Awesome,” he said. He pulled off his flight suit in an extremely dramatic and fluent manoeuvre, almost as though he’d spent long hours practicing it, and slid between the sheets next to the Elder.

He rested his arm over that deliciously furry chest.

“Just so you know, I’m not really down for anything more than a snuggle,” said the Lancer-Initiate. “Not on a first date. But just snuggling is nice, right? You are kind of like a teddy bear. So fluffy. How do you keep it so soft? Do you use product?”

 

And that’s the story of how I got thrown off the Prydwen the  _fourth_ time. After a little more quality snuggle-time, however.


	49. “It’s not what it looks like” - Paladin Danse, Deacon, MacCready

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “It’s not what it looks like.”  
> Characters/Relationship: Paladin Danse, Deacon, MacCready  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/150363897253/hey-let-me-be-you-personal-crazy-random-generator  
> Content advice:

**“It’s not what it looks like.”**

“Yeah it is,” says Deacon. “It totally is.”

“Is not,” says MacCready, indignantly. “Shut up, Deacon.”

Danse stands perfectly still, and holds in the sigh of irritation. It wants so very much to escape that it almost pains him to hold it back. It’s been a difficult few weeks confined to the Castle, constantly on the alert for Brotherhood squads roaming the countryside, even fearing that they might pay a visit to the Castle itself.

But it just doesn’t do to let this pair know of one’s exasperation so early in a conversation. So hold it back he does. He looks from MacCready to Deacon and back again, trying to decide which one is best to address. The one is wide-eyed and blushing furiously. The other grinning like an idiot, his glasses lopsided on his face.

Danse can’t see an advantage to addressing either of them in this state. He looks away across the courtyard, toward the radio antenna in the middle of it, and repeats his initial question.

“What are you doing?”

The question is met with silence, except for a couple of wheezing breaths that might well be laughter. So he looks back and fixes MacCready with his best commanding stare, which often proves the turning point in a situation such as this.

“Well,” says MacCready, squirming under that stare. “It’s a long story.”

“Tell it,” says Danse, folding his arms.

“Yeah,” says Deacon. “I love a good story. Can we sit around a campfire? We could toast some Fancy Lads, it’d be awesome.”

“Shut up, Deacon,” says MacCready. “You nearly lost your eyebrows last time you tried to toast a snack cake.”

Deacon tries to look up at him, dislodging his glasses even further in the process. “Maybe that was deliberate,” he says, “to stop people talking about them all the time.”

“Please,” says Danse. “Just… stop. Why are you… like  _this,_ in the middle of the courtyard.”

“Come on,” says Deacon. “The chance to get between Mac’s thighs? Anyone’d jump at that, am I right?”

MacCready’s eyes open even wider, and his face turns an even deeper shade of red. “Deacon! for f… oh my god. Put me down.”

“But my ears are so warm,” says Deacon. “I mean, I could get used to this.”

“Put him down,” says Danse. “Right now.”

“Wow,” says Deacon. “Rude.” But he does oblige, leaning forward to let MacCready slide to the ground, precipitously enough that the sniper stumbles. His hat falls off and rolls away across the concrete; he darts off to retrieve it and returns, brushing the dust from its brim, and glaring at Deacon as he replaces it on his head.

“Continue,” says Danse.

“Deacon wanted…”

“Mac,” says Deacon, “How could you? I can’t believe you’d do me in like this.” He presses his hand to his chest. “Betrayed in such a cruel manner, with my skin still warm from your touch.”

MacCready covers his eyes with his hands and groans. “Deacon wanted to write something up high where only, um, a tall person could see it.”

“A tall person,” says Danse.

“Yeah,” says MacCready. “Like… Strong. Yeah. Strong.”

“Strong can’t read,” says Deacon.

MacCready doesn’t even bother to try to quieten him this time. They bicker a little more, distracting Danse enough that he forgets to ask them what was written until it’s too late and the two of them are walking away, MacCready grumbling at Deacon, Deacon reaching out to pat MacCready’s shoulder in reply. Once they’re out of sight, Danse tries to see what the graffiti says, but the letters are too small for him to make out.

It’s not until a few days later when he’s in his power armor for a patrol that he happens to look up and catch sight of the small green smudge up high on the wall. He steps as close as he can, but still has to crane his neck and screw up his eyes to see it. And when he does, he feels a smile cross his face, one wider than he can remember feeling for a long time.

_Cheer up, big guy._ _We’ve got your back._


	50. “Boo” - Curie, Strong, MacCready

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Boo.”  
> Characters/Relationship: Curie, Strong, MacCready  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/150408716173/this-is-part-two-of-airagitt-asked-hey-let-me  
> Content advice: spoopy

**“Boo.”**

“Boue?” says Curie.

“More like…  _boo_ ,” says MacCready.

Curie blinks, and repeats herself. “Boue?”

It’s probably as close as she’s going to get, so he nods. “Yeah.”

Curie nods too, and practices the word to herself. Boue.  _Boue_. Boue.

It’s funny how she can say a word that’s exactly the same for the two of them, and yet it sounds so completely different. Like this, boo and boue or whatever she’s saying. Or his name. Robert. Boring, right? Everyone says it the same, except her. With her it’s like,  _Robert_ , like she’s saying it in italics or something.  _Robert_ , except no t.  _Rober_.  _Roberrrr_.

He likes it, and maybe a little more than he’s currently admitting to himself.

“ _Robert_ ,” she says, fulfilling that little daydream one more time. “Why do they say this?”

“What, boo? I don’t know,” he replies. “It’s just the ghost ‘thing’. Like, I dunno. Cait and swearing. Danse and saying ‘outstanding’.”

Curie laughs. “You sound just like him!”

“I hope not,” he replies.

“I suppose,” she says, “it is not nice to be dirty. It does scare me a little, thinking of the germs and bacteria et cetera.”

He frowns, confused. “What?”

“Well,” she says, “after two centuries in an hermetically sealed laboratory, I am simply not used to it. And human bodies get dirty so quickly. Tell me: how do you cope with it? Do you not just want to scrub yourself clean sometimes?”

“Curie,” he says, eventually. “Has someone taught you how to hint or are you actually asking me that question?”

“To hint?” she asks, tilting her head to one side.

“Never mind,” he says. He scratches at his neck and looks at his hands, inspecting them for grime. They’re not that bad. Are they?

Strong shuffles up and stares at the piece of plastic lying in front of them. It’s one of the Halloween decals from the walls of some apartment building or other, though it looks a bit more like a happy cloud than the shadowy apparition of a dead person. The boss had picked it up to melt down for… well, who knows. All MacCready knows is that he’d had to carry the damn thing, and the pumpkins, and the witches on broomsticks, and he had made absolutely sure that his displeasure was known.

Hadn’t helped any. That’s why it’s here.

“Boue!” says Curie, excitedly.

Strong stands with his hands by his sides, predictably unimpressed. “Huh?”

MacCready sighs. “It’s a thing that ghosts say to scare humans.”

Strong squats down next to the decal, and pokes a massive finger at it. “Strong not need special word to scare humans.”

“No,” says MacCready. “Neither do some humans. But it still works. It’s best if you get them by surprise when they’re doing something else. Like… Curie, pretend you’re reading something.”

She looks around as though she’s trying to find a book to pretend to read, so he shows her how to put the edges of her palms together to pretend the book into existence as well. Then, while she’s frowning and probably trying to work out how to turn the page when her hand  _is_ the page, he leans forward.

“Boo!” he says.

Her intake of breath is sharp, her gasp of surprise coming out as more of a squeak. On instinct, she’s reached out and grabbed his arm and is looking at him with a wounded expression that actually makes him feel a little guilty. “ _Robert_ ,” she says. “You scared me!”

_That was kinda the point_ , he thinks, but he’s also kinda staring into her eyes and… uh…

He coughs and pries her fingers from his arm. “Yeah, uh. What was I saying?”

“Strong say boo at people,” says Strong, rising to his feet.

“Um. It works best at Halloween,” says MacCready. “Like, when there’s an actual reason to scare people.”

“Strong not need reason,” says the mutant, stomping away.

MacCready removes his hat and turns it in his hands, watching Strong until he disappears back into the middle of the settlement. “I get the feeling that might not be the greatest idea I’ve ever had.”

“Do not worry yourself,” says Curie. “The people here know Strong. And he is not quiet when he moves himself.”

“Yeah,” he says, even as the first shriek goes up from somewhere among the wooden buildings. “I’m sure it’ll be absolutely fine.”


	51. “I almost  lost you” - Deacon, Male Sole Survivor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “I almost lost you.”  
> Characters/Relationship: Deacon, Male Sole Survivor  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/150453710495/7-for-deacon-and-sole-hurtcomfort-or-just-plain  
> Content advice: angst and gore

**“I almost  lost you.”**

Charmer’s eyes have opened for about the tenth time in the last hour, but this is the first time they’ve stayed that way for any length of time, and the first time he’s managed to speak.

“Still might,” he says.

So he’s joking already. Deacon feels the first wave of relief and fights it back down before it can catch hold.

It’s just easier that way.

You can practically watch as Charmer goes through the wake-up routine. I’ve just woken up (fine), I don’t know where I am (uh-oh), wow a lot of me hurts (this isn’t good), oh look, there’s Deacon (???). “How long was I out?” he asks.

“Just a few hours,” says Deacon. Felt like a hell of a lot longer than that, once they’d gotten through the time-is-flowing-really-fast-and-so-is-all-of-your-blood stage.

“I feel about a hundred years old,” says Charmer.

“Wow”, says Deacon, forcing a smile. “Minus 154 by my count. Maybe I should get my innards torn out by an angry mutated bear if it reverses the ageing process that much.”

Charmer’s eyes drift over toward him. “A yao-guai? Shit.”

Deacon blinks away some particularly invasive images and swallows down the resultant nausea. “You don’t remember?”

“Nope,” he replies. He tries to move and judging by the groan that escapes his lips, deep as his voice and full of pain, he immediately regrets it. He lies back and stares at the ceiling, his usually twinkling eyes dull and bloodshot. “Break it to me gentle. Do I still have all my limbs?”

“Yeah,” says Deacon.

“Internal organs?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Though they may not be in exactly the right place. I was never any good at jigsaw puzzles.”

“Well,” says Charmer. “As long as they still work I suppose it don’t matter where they are. How about my boyish good looks?”

Deacon tries to laugh, but it comes out as a bit of a… well, a bitter choking sound. “Hey, I’m the one that supposed to make the inappropriately-timed jokes.”

Charmer smiles, sorta, and something of a twinkle returns to his eyes. “The pupil has surpassed the master.”

“I’m not master of anything,” says Deacon.

Those eyes stay fixed on him for a moment. “So what  _about_ the good looks?”

“You still got that silver fox thing going for you,” he says. And he’d say  _few more scars to add to the collection, people of all persuasions dig that_  but he doesn’t, because  _he_ doesn’t. He’s going to remember how he got them.

Charmer holds his breath, and pushes himself upright before Deacon can even offer to help him. “Oh,” he says, as he looks down at himself, and around at the room. Deacon had done his best to mop up the worst of the blood, but there was a lot of it,  _really_ a lot. It was everywhere, dragged in trails along the wooden floorboards, soaked deep into the mattress, and gobs of it spattered more than halfway up the walls.

It looks worse than it is. That’s what you always tell yourself. That’s what you have to tell yourself.

“Fuck, man,” he says. “How am I still alive?”

Deacon feels himself start to shake, from the inside out. Maybe the effort of holding that relief down because he still can’t let himself acknowledge it, it’s still too soon. Maybe it’s just the exhaustion kicking in, from hours spent jabbing in stimpaks and begging every deity he could think to name, even fictional ones.

_Please._

_**Please.** _

_Not this one too._

“I wasn’t about to lose you to an angry yow… uh, yoogee,” he says, forcing lightness into his voice. “Listen to me, I wouldn’t even be able to tell people about it.”

Charmer laugh-coughs. “You could just tell them it was a deathclaw.”

“C'mon,” says Deacon. “That would be dishonest.”

He drops his head and stares at his hands, still kind of orange and gritty with dried blood. I’m tired of lies, he thinks, just in case Charmer can hear it. I’m tired of everything. I don’t know if I can do this any more.

He looks up just in time to see an upturned hand being held out toward him.

“Come here,” says Charmer.

Deacon stares at it, kinda stupidly, not wanting to take it because he’s still telling himself that he is managing to hide that shaking, and touching him will be a  _dead_ giveaway.

But then he finds himself reaching out for that hand, and even as he’s thinking  _what are you doing, you’re not a hugger, plus this guy’s just had his organs rearranged by, well, you, is it even safe to hug him?_  he’s folding his arms around Charmer’s shoulders, and there’s an arm around his back that’s got enough strength in it for him start to think that maybe, just maybe, he’s going to be okay.

The relief comes again, a rising tide that threatens to wash over him and drag him under for good.

This time he lets it.


	52. “Kiss me” - Curie, X6-88

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Kiss me.”  
> Characters/Relationship: Curie, X6-88  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/150500180940/hi-i-have-a-non-anonymous-request-for-your-story  
> Content advice: this is where my belief that Curie gains most of her romantic knowledge from trashy romance novels originally began

**“Kiss me.”**

This direct approach often seems to work in the books Curie has been reading. The reaction she receives in real life is very different, but not entirely unexpected.

Particularly not with X6-88.

“What?” he asks, sharply.

“Kiss me,” she says, again, just in case it is that he has not heard.

“No,” he says.

As mentioned, this response is not entirely unexpected. In the books, after all, it is the male who makes the request, and the female who throws aside often her dislike of the man, and very often her clothes, in response to it.

This is what Curie wants to test. These responses seem illogical. A single kiss cannot possibly have such an effect.

But X6 has declined to participate. And she will honour that.

“Very well,” she says, and she returns to her seat.

All the responses she has had so far have been very similar. MacCready and Piper both turned an interesting shade of red, indicating an emotional response of some kind, true, but then excused themselves from the area. Very quickly. Paladin Danse had the same response, physiologically speaking, but he remained and just made many excuses about the practicality of such an act whilst in power armour.

He did not respond to the suggestion that he leave it.

Monsieur Nate declined as well, but he just smiled and suggested some different, ‘more effective’ methods of approaching people.

Curie had thanked him for the advice. But that was not the nature of the test.

She picks up her newest book, which had come from a trader a few days before. The image on the front of it is a gentleman without his shirt. He has flowing blonde hair, and there is a dark-haired woman clutching at his chest. She is wearing a dress of very flimsy material, with the strap falling off her shoulder. It also appears to be snowing. Why they are dressed so inappropriately for the climate, she does not know. Perhaps the book will explain. 

Curie has already learned that with this kind of story, that will not necessarily be so.

She opens the book to the first page. Before she can even read the first paragraph, a shadow crosses it and she looks up. It is caused by X6-88.

“Why?” he asks.

Curie closes the book. “Because I want you to kiss me,” she says.

He looks at her for a moment. He asks again. “Why?”

She shrugs. “I just do,” she says. “These things are beyond human comprehension, no?”

He does not respond. But he does not leave, either.

Curie smiles, sweetly. “Perhaps, as synths, we may have more success?”

He does not respond again, but there is a change in his stance. His shoulders appear to relax, a little, and there is a slight twitch in his cheek.

And Curie has read enough books to know that that is an  _excellent_ sign.

“Very well,” he says.

Curie places her hands on the table to push herself up fast. She steps around it to stand in front of him. Her shoes are very flat, so she has to make her neck long to look up at him.

She points at her lips. “Kiss me,” she says, again.

He leans down and touches his lips to hers, with just a little hesitation.

It is a pleasant sensation, that is true.

He does not take off his sunglasses so she cannot observe the status of his pupils. She is too close to see any change in colour in his cheek, so she touches it with her hand to see if it is warm. It is hard to tell, however, as she failed to test his temperature before the test. She must remember that next time.

Then she feels his fingers stroke around the back of her neck, almost into her hair. His lips are still on hers, and they press harder, in fact. Then  _her_ cheeks become hot. Most of her is warm, in fact, and she begins to think she is understanding why the removal of clothes comes so soon after that first kiss in the books.

Perhaps this explains the need to stand half-naked in the snow, also.

After a few moments, he lets her go. There is no mirror nearby to check her pupils but judging by the heat in her cheeks and the rapidity of her heartbeat she can infer that they are indeed dilated.

“Thank you,” she says.

A very successful test, though she was not expecting the reaction to be so strong in herself, as the one asking. She is just thinking how she should revise the procedure for the next round of testing when X6-88 clears his throat.

“Is that all?” he asks.

Curie thinks for a moment. She does need to assess the results. But her cheeks are almost returned to normal.

“No,” she says. “Come here.”

The hallmark of a  _truly_ successful study is, after all, its reproducibility.


	53. “Kiss me” - John Hancock, Female Sole Survivor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Kiss me.”  
> Characters/Relationship: John Hancock, Female Sole Survivor  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/150644132840/13-fem-sole-x-hancock-please-btw-your-writing-is  
> Content advice: angsty

**“Kiss me.”**

The screen at Starlight Drive-In casts a dark shadow across the land, dark enough for folk to get up to all sorts of business in the unseen gloom.

The other side of the screen, that is. This one’s bright and breezy and in full view of the settlement.

Hancock grins.

He’s never been particularly averse to a bit of open-air action. It ain’t exactly unpleasant to get a cool breeze on skin that’s always a little tight and tired, and maybe he can’t fight the sun but he can sure as hell give it somethin’ to blush at. It ain’t so usual for her, however, bein’ more of the blushing-as-she-touches-your-knee-in-a-dark-corner-of-a-seedy-bar sort which is convenient considering he owns a bar of that exact nature.

So it’s somethin’ of an unusual request but John Hancock, Mayor of Goodneighbor, protector of the people and follower of both the sweetest and deadliest thing to trip out of a Vault in the last two hundred ten years… that ghoul ain’t about to pass up an opportunity as golden as this one.

He pins her up against the screen and proceeds about the task of kissing her face off.

Pretty soon her hands are headin’ down to his belt, and he’s about to murmur his appreciation all soft in her ear, tell her what he hopes she’s going to do down there when from behind him comes a clankin’, accompanied by the ground startin’ to shake just a little.

Well. That shakin’ might just be in his legs, what with the anticipation and all, but the clankin’, that’s real, and he goes to take a look but a few soft fingers keep him lookin’ at her. She glances over his shoulder, leans over a little farther than he reckons she needs in fact but he doesn’t think much about that right away, bein’ somewhat preooccupied.

“Anything’ I should be worried about?” he asks.

“No,” she says, so he carries on. But her eyes do keep opening and flicking to the side like she’s looking at something behind him, and the next time he tries to take a glance over his shoulder she does let him, though with her wrist caught tight in his hand she don’t have much of a choice.

But of course, who should be standing right there but Paladin Fine-Ass himself with a look of thunder on his face. Look of a full-on supercell mixed with a radstorm, except in that case he’d probably have his helmet on for once, he don’t want the rads ruinin’ that pretty face of his or riskin’ any of that en-ghoulification business.

Hancock looks back at her, and he doesn’t much like what he sees. Her eyes are shinin’, sure, and she’s got that whole pin-up-girl parted-lips take-me-now expression that always gets his motor running.

But the look of jubilation behind it ain’t so pretty.

_C'mon, love_ , he thinks.  _You can’t just bring me out when you want to scandalize the locals._

‘Cept she does, don’t she? Stroll back into Diamond City all howdy fellas, oh don’t mind me, I’m with her, please submit any complaints to the large fortified Castle in the South with all the artillery and such.

“I hope you ain’t just usin’ me as a prop,” he says.

“Course not,” she says, but it’s a lie, a pretty little lie. And maybe he oughta say somethin’, object a little more strongly, but he knows what she’s like by now. She’ll get to the poutin’ and the sulkin’ and even though he’s feelin’ at a distinct disadvantage in this particular situation he’ll probably end up chasin’ after her and promisin’ her the world.

He would give it to her.

(In a manner of speakin’.)

Maybe one day she’ll cool down and stop treatin’ him like a novelty. Not today, perhaps, not this month. But one day. Maybe.

Time will tell.

And he’s got a lot of that on his hands.


	54. “Hey, have you seen the…” - Paladin Danse, Knight Rhys, Male Sole Survivor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Hey, have you seen the…” and "Well, this is awkward."  
> Characters/Relationship: Paladin Danse, Knight Rhys, Male Sole Survivor  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/150735617550/46-49-male-soleknight-rhys-paladin-danse-3  
> Content advice:

**“Hey, have you seen the…”**

The door swings open into the room, smacking against the wall with a crash which is soon followed by the distinctive patter of crumbling plaster. Cambridge Police Station was hardly in good repair to begin with, but after a number of weeks in use by the Brotherhood it is looking distinctly the worse for wear. One or two units assigned to the location are somewhat fresh to power armor and less able to judge the actual force required to open a standard door.

“… Knight…” continues Rhys.

The Knight in question is one of those units. Although at the time of his recruitment he had claimed to be confident in his ability to operate a suit of power armor, it has become increasingly clear that he may have exaggerated his capabilities.

Hence the present situation.

“Uh, if you two need some privacy…” says Rhys.

There is a slight catch in his voice that indicates he finds the situation somewhat amusing.

It is not.

Paladin Danse had known that the Knight’s insistence on continuing to wear that damned Pip-Boy at all times, even when in power armor, would cause problems in the end. He was proven correct. Some part of the device has become caught inside his suit. Not only is the Knight’s hand stuck firm, but the suit itself is refusing to open up along that whole arm, making a series of alarming whirring noises whenever the release button is hit.

He had entered the room to find the Knight hanging there, ineffectually attempting to extract his arm while his feet scrabbled for purchase on the outside of the suit.

“Uh,” he’d said. “Little help, here?”

That had been mildly amusing. But as the superior officer, Paladin Danse had controlled his mirth and stepped in to help, resisting the temptation to make reference to the self-inflicted nature of the situation.

Now, with his own hand trapped between the Pip-Boy and the inside of the suit, the other holding onto the suit’s interior handle, attempting to balance on the same footholds that are barely large enough for the Knight’s feet, and pressed up snugly against the Knight’s back, Danse regrets his decision.

“Knight Rhys,” he says, “get over here and assist us.”

“Sure,” says Rhys. “Whatever.”

“Simply flip the release catch by the wrist…”

“Yeah okay, I got it,” says Rhys, wandering slowly around toward it, grabbing a screwdriver from the table. “I know how to operate a suit of armor, unlike some people I could mention.”

Danse swallows his irritation. “The Knight’s Pip-Boy became trapped…”

“Okay, okay,” says Rhys. “What else would it be? You were trying to climb in there with him?”

Danse closes his eyes, which also turns out to be a mistake because as soon as he does there is a click and the arm snaps open. Released from the grip of the suit, the Knight’s weight shifts toward him, Danse’s hand slips, and he feels himself falling away from the suit in a slow and graceless arc.

He crashes to the ground, all air expelled from his lungs in an unseemly grunt. When the Knight follows him down just as precipitously, Danse attempts to break his fall to prevent the man from landing too heavily, but only ends up handling the Knight in a manner that, if it were not entirely accidental, could well be considered inappropriate.

From the other side of the suit, Rhys snorts with amusement.

When the dust settles Knight McKay looks up, his eyes bright with amusement. He grins.

“The suit was bad enough, Danse, but….  **well. This _is_  awkward.**”


	55. "I'm pregnant" - Curie, Paladin Danse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "I'm pregnant" and "Marry me."  
> Characters/Relationship: Curie, Paladin Danse  
> URL: http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/150835519435/could-you-do-27-then-a-28-between-curie-and-danse  
> Content advice:

**“I’m pregnant.”**

Danse’s hands fall still, coming to rest on the laser rifle on which he has just been working. He hadn’t stopped his task when the door had opened, only glancing quickly over his shoulder to ascertain who it was before continuing. For the past week or so, the only interruptions have been the occasional Minuteman, sometimes even Garvey himself.

This time, Curie had been beaming back at him from the doorway.

His own smile had remained on his face when he had turned back to the workbench, as he’d waited for her steps to approach and to be followed by the gentle pressure of her hand on his back and the touch of her cheek against his arm.

This is their routine.

Half the time she breaks her silence with a question. The rest, a statement, often bursting out of her in her excitement at some discovery she has made.

He supposes this counts as an example of the latter.

But…

Pregnant?

He turns, slowly, wiping grease from his fingers with a cloth almost as filthy as his hands.

“What?” he asks.

Even as he says the word he half-expects her face to crack into a smile, for her eyes to brighten in the way that tells him someone has taught her a new joke. He begins to put together his objections,  _Deacon, please stop using Curie to make fun of me._

Instead, she only repeats herself, earnest as can be.

_Pregnant._

“Curie,” he says. “That’s not… that’s not possible.”

“Oh, I am quite sure,” she says. “I have performed extensive tests. Exhaustive, in fact. And exhausting! Although, that may be a symptom. It is hard now to take the factors in isolation, and… are you unwell?”

He finds himself rubbing his hand over his eyes, too confused even to reply.

“Is this not a correct time?” she asks. “Monsieur Deacon said to tell you when you were relaxed and happy. I know how much you enjoy handling your weapon, so I thought…”

He uncovers his eyes to see that the corners of her mouth have turned up into that impish smile he knows so well by now. It fades when he shakes his head.

_No jokes. Not now. Please._

He crosses the room to sit heavily on the battered old couch on which he’s spent many a night, after long days working to re-equip the Minutemen.

“How?” he asks. “It shouldn’t be possible… surely?”

“I was not certain either,” says Curie. “So I asked Deacon to take me to one of his doctor friends, to review my studies. She said that she did not know how to explain it. And that it was very unlikely that the Institute would have done this deliberately. She was.. how did she say. ‘At a loss’.”

“Is that… is that all?” he asks.

She settles down by his side, easing her shoulder under his arm and resting her cheek on his chest. “Well,” she says, “Monsieur Deacon pulled open the neck of ‘is shirt and said ‘life finds a way’. Do you know what he meant by that?”

Danse stares at her for a moment. “No,” he says.

“Oh,” she says. “Never mind. But the doctor did confirm the hypothesis. It is true.“ Her fingers curl over his, her thumb rubbing over his palm. “Is it not something you wanted, perhaps?” she asks. “To have a child?”

“No,” he says. “I mean, yes, of course I did. I just… didn’t think I’d… and not since…”

His voice trails away, and he curses himself. The less he’s able to speak, the more her eyebrows fold into an expression of concern.

To think, he used to pride himself on being eloquent.

He used to pride himself on a lot of things.

They were all taken from him.

But this…

Perhaps he has another chance.

“Curie,” he says. “You… how do you… how do you feel?”

She pauses for a moment. “I am afraid,” she says. “There are a hundred, a thousand factors, and I cannot control for any of them.”

“I’ll look after you,” he says.

“It is not up to you,” she says. “It is… chance, or fate, or one of these other things.”

It is true. It is horribly dangerous. And he can’t shield her from it. But he can look after her. He can protect her to the best of his abilities. If nothing else, if it all goes wrong, he can at least show her how much he loves her, despite everything.

“I can try,” he says. “I will try. If you’ll let me.”

“I am not sure what you mean,” she says.

“Curie,” he says. “Marry me.”


End file.
